


Cygate Kinktober

by catc10



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Don't Judge Me, I can't believe I'm doing this, M/M, Wow, encourage me, or - Freeform, somebody stop me, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-23 04:17:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 25,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catc10/pseuds/catc10
Summary: So I saw a list of Kinktober prompts. And immediately remembered how many times I REALLY WANTED to write some Cygate smut.SO GUESS WHAT I DID?!?!?Each chapter will have the kink in the chapter title, so you can skip kinks that squick you.





	1. Sleepy Sex

Tailgate shifted and wiggled in the berth, still half in recharge, warm and comfortable wrapped up in soft meshes and cradled in a mound of pillows meant for mechs far bigger than the diminutive minibot. “Mmmm...Cy-” Tailgate’s tiny engine sputtered and his voicebox shorted out with a heave of his vent intakes, “Cyclonus? Why’d you wake me up?”

 

A wide blue visor flickered dimly, and the huge purple form of the older mech swam into focus, sat upon the edge of his berth, Tailgate’s own across the room, abandoned and cold.

 

“Shhhh,” hissed the tall mech quietly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Cyclonus’ deep rumble rolled through Tailgate’s whole frame pleasently, and the little bot shivered. “Are you cold? I can get another mesh for you,” Cyclonus offered.

 

“Mmmm,” Tailgate hummed, “Or...you can warm me up yourself.”

 

“Myself?”

 

“Heehee! Cyclonus! For being so much older than me, you really miss a lot, don’cha?” Tailgate gave another sleepy stretch in his cocoon of meshes, kicking his legs childishly until Cyclonus relented and helped free his little one’s legs. Once uncovered, the little limbs kicked at Cyclonus’ hips, dragging his heels across the big mech’s lap, and eventually Cyclonus heaved himself over until he found himself in a very familiar position between Tailgate’s wide-spread legs.

 

Tailgate hummed happily, his engine purring, burrowing down into his gathered meshes and pillows and offlining his visor. Cyclonus leaned in, bracing his arm struts above Tailgate’s helm, looking down at the sleepy minibot. Lazily, Tailgate folded his pedes over Cyclonus’ aft.

 

“Tailgate?”

 

“Heehee,” Tailgate giggled softly. He twisted his helm up, visor flickering in a facsimile of a wink. He squeezed his legs three times rhythmically. “Warm me up?” he moaned.

 

“Tailgate, you have half in recharge.”

 

“So? It just means that you’re going to have to do all the work,” Tailgate said, wiggling and squeezing until Cyclonus’ panels clicked against his own tantalizingly. “Please, Cyclonus?”

 

Cyclonus hissed, and relented.

 

He could never be accused of being tough on his tiny lover.

 

Cyclonus settled his weight onto Tailgate’s little torso, rubbing their closed panels together, and savoring the slow, sleepy rise of charge between himself and the swaddled form of Tailgate. Tailgate hummed and sighed, nuzzling his face into Cyclonus’ chest, right over his spark. “Mmmm, that’s nice.”

 

Cyclonus, encouraged with the sleepy declaration, continued his slow assault, pulsing his EM field, a slow crest, then a retreat, to mimic the slow rocking of his body. Tailgate giggled lowly, a small shiver of his own EM rippling in response. Cyclonus slowly circled his arms around Tailgate, lifting him cocoon and all to a height level with his denta, and made circuits over the little helm and shoulders, nipping and licking, sending sparks across recharge-warm plating.

 

After some minutes, Cyclonus had worked himself up to a healthy charge, sparks jumping off his denta and flizzling into air that was starting to take on the scent of burning ozone. Tailgate had stopped responding, and the bigger mech was steeling himself to peel away and find a deserted wash rack to relieve himself. He made to move away.

 

“Nooooo….” came a small, pathetic cry from underneath him. Cyclonus spat a spark.

 

“You’re barely awake, Tailgate.”

 

“Don’t care. Comfy. Keep goin’.”

 

Cyclonus made to pull away again. Tiny legs cinched around him --almost pressureless, but as strong as dura-steel for how easily they kept Cyclonus, fearsome ex-decepticon, where he was.

 

A tiny snick of sound, and Cyclonus felt the moist press of a small valve on his panel, excruciatingly warm. Cyclonus dove into the mesh above Tailgate’s helm, “Please don’t tempt me, sweetspark,” he guttered, “I feel as though I may devour you.”

 

“Mmmm...sounds nice.”

 

Cyclonus raised up, and re-wrapped Tailgate in his meshes, then slid down the wrapped up body, shuffling Tailgates little legs over his shoulders, putting his intake precisely level with Tailgate’s bared valve. Another quick rearranging of mesh to keep the limbs over his shoulders from being exposed to the chilly air of their quarters, and Cyclonus was ready to begin.

 

Just as before, Cyclonus took the proceedings slowly, beginning with a nuzzle. He pressed his olfactory crest to the soft folds, nosing at the raised bud of Tailgate’s anterior node and snuffled against it, just to hear the little one sigh. After nuzzling, he added his glossa, laving and licking each fold in turn, then tailgates pulsing anterior node, and finally at the twitching valve entrance before him, lubricants sluggishly dripping down his chin. Tailgate settled into his meshes once more, and shifted just enough to make sure the bigger cybertronian’s access went unimpeded. 

Cyclonus groaned deeply at the over-sweet taste of a mech too interested in high-grade and jellied energon sweets, and the vibrations went straight through Tailgate to zing up his nervous-circuits. A sweet gasp dropped from his vocalizer and Cyclonus ached for another. His efforts did not speed, but his glossa found a node inside and worried it until his second gasp was had.

 

It was slow-going, but Cyclonus got Tailgate’s first overload right into his intake, a splash of super-sweet electron-rich energon directly to his glossa and spilling out his open cheeks. He lapped at Tailgate’s inner nodes through each trembling shock of it, pulsing love and encouragement through his field, just to make it last a little longer.

 

Tailgate panted quietly above him, vents hiccuping as the charge bubbled.

 

But didn’t quite fade.

 

Cyclonus slid up again, leaving lubricant smeared kisses in his wake. “Would you like to rest now, little one?”

 

Tailgate huffed, squeezing his knee-joints over Cyclonus’ waist. “Frag,” he said, petulantly.

 

“Are you certain, my love? You were already tired, and you’ve had two overloads.”

 

“Now.”

 

Cyclonus’ engine thrummed, “As you wish, my love.”

 

Tailgate’s little engine purred, and one little hand appeared to take hold of one arcing horn and bring Cyclonus’ helm just close enough to kiss --and lapped up his own fluids off the bigger mech’s derma. Cyclonus’ engine revved up, and his own panel slid aside, allowing his spike to pressurize against Tailgate’s anterior node.

 

Tailgate squirmed, until the the tip of the other’s spike was nestled right at the opening of his valve, in an anticipatory kiss. Slowly, so slowly that Cyclonus could feel Tailgate going lax with recharge once more, Cyclonus pressed in. Tailgate’s calipers fluttered around him, small, barely there movements as equipment only barely within his own unit’s upper parameters of allowance speared him open in one inevitable thrust.

 

He sunk in inch by inch into Tailgate, the sweet grip of each caliper in turn as he burrowed past them shooting sparks up his spinal strut and throwing his EM into spasms. Tailgate’s by contrast was as steady as an nitrogen ocean on a gas giant, ebbing and flowing in great arcs, calming Cyclonus with buffeting waves of sleepy love and contentment, where only the deepest of signals told tale of the charge building up in the tiny chassis. 

 

When he bottomed out, the end of Tailgate’s valve reached, and the head of Cyclonus’ silver spike thrust against his ceiling node, there were still several inches left outside of Tailgate’s body. Cyclonus stilled there, letting the feelings wash over his processor, and taking in the sweetest melodies of Tailgate’s venting and barely audible moaning. He was as deep as he’d ever been in his tiny lover, though if he’d pressed, Cyclonus was sure Tailgate would let him into his overflow tank. But, from experience, it was uncomfortable --and Cyclonus wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to do that to the visored mech.

 

Cyclonus steadied, then he began to pull out.

 

“Ah, Cy!” Tailgate whimpered, “It feels like--like-- _ mmmm! _ ”

 

Cyclonus hissed, each slick pop of a caliper over his spike head like a burst of sensation going straight to his fluid tanks, which were already working on overdrive. Just before pulling out entirely, he stopped.

 

And moved in again.

 

The pace was glacial, and Tailgate happily sighed and squeezed and fluttered through it, Cyclonus focusing on the shuttering of his visor, and the roll of his hips to the exclusion of all else. Each thrust was an epoch, and each epoch a sleepy story of comfort and love and longing.

 

Cyclonus watched, almost detached from the proceedings as Tailgate overloaded again.

 

Then again.

 

Then again.

 

Each overload taxing his already wane energy until he was all but somnolent in his hot meshes, his valve sloppy with lubricant and the wet patch under him telling in its size. His legs drooped lazily off Cyclonus’ hips, hooked in place only by the piles of cushions to either side.

 

“In--Inside, Cyclonus.”

 

Cyclonus grunted, sliding in, and finally giving in to his body’s need for faster, for friction, and for more. Tailgates visor flickered with each unerring thrust to his ceiling node, the squelch of his valve overtaken by the soft clang of their pelvises. “Ah, ah, ah, ah!” tiny noises were forced out of him in his sleepy state, body willing, but unable to give even one more overload to Cyclonus.

 

Cyclonus dropped in close, his whole body covering the little blue bot. For just a moment, the force of Cyclonus’ thrusts were just to the safe side of what Tailgate could take, each jerking to a stop right before the point where something might have damaged him inside. Tailgate, sleepily, knew that Cyclonus might regret it in the day-shift, when he had a mind to remember, but he was going to treasure it. The feeling of Cyclonus on the brink of control. But, to be on the safe side...

 

“Ah, ah, ah-- I-I love you, Cyclonus!”

 

Cyclonus sunk in deep, shivering through his whole frame, a pitiful moan grit through his denta. His transfluid spilled into Tailgate, into the little overflow chamber. Filling that and leaking into the little valve. Reluctantly, Cyclonus pulled back to give the fluid more room, until his tanks were pumped empty, and there was a liberal spattering all over Tailgate’s panels and the swaths of meshes still wrapped around him. Tailgate snapped his panel shut before any more could drip out.

 

“Mmmmm--thank you, Cyclonus.”

 

The large purple mech dropped unconscious over the other’s small frame, his horns caught at just the right angle to hitch his vents into a snore. Tailgate squealed under the sudden weight, then settled in for the night. He fought with a discarded mesh until it could drape over a portion of the larger mech, a sliver of one purple arm, thought again, then snuggled in with a mild squashed “Frag it. Goodnight, Cy!”

 

Cyclonus snored in response.


	2. Dirty Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not quite as happy with this shorty, but I will never claim to 100% have Cyclonus' voice down.
> 
> Dirty talk day!

“Hmmm, Tailgate, keep squirming, yes, that’s it. Do you feel full? You look full, I can see you stretching over my spike. See that bump in your chassis? That’s my spike in you. Can you feel it? Here, put your servo on it. Mmmm...I can feel your servo, little love.

 

“What was that? Of course, Tailgate. Better? You look lovely on top, love. Can’t you see how big it is inside you, now? Can you feel me pressing your ceiling node? Does it feel good? No, no. Stop squirming. I said stop. Here, I’ll hold you still if you are too distracted to listen.

 

“There, more slowly. See how that feels now? Nice?

 

“Mmm, Shhh...stop whimpering little one, you’ll be full of my fluid soon. It won’t be such a long wait. Hush, are you truly so impatient? Should I punish you, little one? Oh? Does that sound good to you? Then  _ here! _

 

“No moving now, Tailgate. You were far too hurried, so there’s no moving for a moment. No, lean down here. Closer -- arms around my neck, that’s it.

 

“Just listen for a moment, shhh, shhh, no crying now:

“If I hold you down like  _ this -- _ mmm, that was a lovely noise-- if I hold you down like this, can you feel me twitching inside you? Does it press against your node?

 

“If I swivel you around like this---haa, see how you squeeze on me? Ah-ah, don’t ease up now.

 

“Now when I pull you  _ up _ \--oh love, I told you there’s no reason to cry. Oh? It’s not sad crying? What sort of crying is it? Haaaa-- can I fix it like  _ this? _

 

“As I thought, you just needed to be stuffed full again.

 

“Now, what if I do  _ this? _ Ooh, that felt nice, little love. Just rock with me now. Good, a little faster, now.

 

“Sit back up, ride me. Servos up, behind your helm, show off for me. That’s it. Slow down. Tease me.

 

“I love the way you look, Tailgate. All stretched out for me, vents panting, chassis stuffed full of my spike, your visor is flickering, did you know?

 

“What if I rub your node? Your little spike? Ah --yes, that’s a lovely sound.

 

“Ah! --tricky bot. Back under for you! Well, if you liked being on top, you shouldn’t have overloaded like that. 

 

“Mmm..shhh, Tailgate, shhh. Settle, love. This is going to be very intense. Heh-- because you just overloaded, you silly thing. I want to feel you losing it over my spike, absolutely senseless and shivering as you spark with charge. I want to pound you so hard that the berth breaks, do you think you can take it?

 

“Okay, deep vent. I want to hear you shrieking my name.”

 

…

 

“Good boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any critique that could help me with Cyclonus' voice would be AMAZING.
> 
> HEEEELLPPP!!!!


	3. Public Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cygate do it in a hallway. Some cum-play at the end, but only briefly.

Tailgate giggled obnoxiously from his place between the  _ Lost Light _ ’s other resident minibots, Rewind and Swerve. All three put on the impression that they were wildly drunk, though Cyclonus was of the opinion that Swerve may have just been playing along for the camaraderie that doing so allowed him with the two, more popular, minibots. As it was, Tailgate was leaning on the bright red bartender, giggle fit making a helpless heap of him and spilling his drink across the sticky bar floor of  _ Swerve’s _ . Swerve, ridiculous grin slapped across his pale faceplates, didn’t seem to mind at all, happily slopping another round into Tailgate’s cube. On Tailgate’s other side, Rewind draped over Tailgate’s arm, red recording light blinking, and one grey finger reaching out to poke the blue minibot on the facemask, his own visor bright with overcharge.

 

“Heehee! Cyclonus! Cyclonus! Show them my Energon! Lookit, Rewind! Look look, Swerve! Cyclonus has my innermost energon on a little chain, right next to some of his own!”

 

“Yeah, looks real good, Tailgate, you picked the chain, right?”

 

“Yes!”

 

Cyclonus bore the repetition of the story that had broken onto the gossip chain earlier that shift, just a few cycles past Cyclonus’ living of it. The series of events had landed him on the opposite side of the table from the raucous minibots, sat next to a droopily besotted Chromedome who was leaning on one gangly arm to look at his conjunx, still poking and prodding all of Tailgate’s seams and causing the pint-sized powerhouse to shriek and wiggle. High grade was going  _ everywhere. _

 

Cyclonus could almost sneer at the sheer amount of blithe contented foolery happening across from him.

 

Almost.

 

But then Tailgate would giggle, tipped just so, and the obnoxious edge bubbled away. The little bot would turn his visor up to Cyclonus, and every part of his faceplate glowing with the bright charge off his visor, and Cyclonus lost all heat and discontent building charge in his spark.

 

The off shift had begun as many did --not in Swerve’s, but with Tailgate returning to their quarters, held up the predecible number of cycles by friends and acquaintances saying hello and chatting for some time about niceties. Just enough time for Cyclonus to prepare a surprise and to set the very beginnings of discomfort through his tanks. It wasn’t worry for rejection. It was anticipation. For joy.

 

Cyclonus repeated that to himself a few more times before Tailgate had appeared at their habsuite, cheery and blustering away, dropping a trinket here, and throwing himself onto his berth, kicking his little legs. Cyclonus remembered tearing his optics off their tempting sway before putting his plan to action.

 

“Tailgate, would you like to…” he also remembered the utter terror that had gripped him at that exact moment, taking hold of the tubing in his innards and clawing up his processing tanks. “Nevermind. You have ‘movie night’ with Rewind and some of the others, do you not?”

 

Tailgate twisted around, “No, that’s next orn. You promised to go with me! Did… did you change your mind? It’s okay if you have, I know you don’t like being crowded. We could stay in instead! I could ask to make a copy of the movie and we could watch it in here!”

 

Cyclonus remembered the pit-spawned cringe that replaced the nervous terror --how quickly guilt slayed nerves.

 

“No, Tailgate, I have not changed my mind, I must have my dates wrong.”

 

“Should we go by the medbay? That isn’t like you.”

 

“No, we do not, Tailgate.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“I’m sure, Tailgate. I actually...prepared a surprise for you.”

 

Tailgate perked up, “A surprise? Cyclonus, you shouldn’t have! Especially if you’re not feeling well!”

 

Cyclonus waved off the heavy concern of the minibot, and ushered them both out of the hab and down the corridors, twisting and turning to avoid others, until they found themselves in a seldom-traveled viewing corridor. From floor to ceiling along one side, the passage was transpara-steel, a window to the starry black.

 

Tailgate had clutched onto Cyclonus’ servo and Ooohed and Aahed appropriately, and when Cyclonus had pulled snacks and beverage from his subspace, the pitch of Tailgate’s squeal of joy should have been piercing, but instead ratcheted up the spinning of the bigger bot’s spark. Tailgate pulled a mesh from his own subspace, a thin chamois that did little besides protecting them from the thin dust on the floor. The little blue bot arranged them into quite the relaxed scene, Cyclonus relaxing on his side, and Tailgate kneeling to his side, letting himself be fed jellied treats sprinkled with copper and zinc shavings.

 

Cyclonus’ spark had felt like magnesium sparklers were going off in his chamber, and pulled Tailgate closer, until the mini was pressed right up against him, being fed treat after treat, and feeding Cyclonus sips of energon zhuzhed up with a dash of carbonated high-grade. The bubbles were awful for the tank...but felt lovely on the glossa.

 

Phase one of the plan was a complete success, but before the purple bot could be entirely distracted with a fabulously formed thighs, he needed to seal the deal.

 

“Tailgate--Tailgate, just a moment, if you please. I have a request.”

 

“Oh, do you want a jelly?”

 

“No, thank you. I --uh,” Cyclonus had never felt less eloquent in his functioning. “I --that is,” Tailgate gazed at his partner, curious glow of his visor stuttering all of Cyclonus’ processes. His servos shook as he reached one more time into his subspace to find the little vial inside.

 

“I gave you this once before, but...well…” and he passed over the innermost energon with utmost delicacy. Tailgate sucked in a vent, and then, shaking, reached into his own subspace, and pulled out a vial of his own, on a chain too long for his own neck, but which might just, if Cyclonus wasn’t seeing things, fit just perfectly around his own.

 

“I...I would like, Tailgate, for you to consider my suite to be your  _ conjunx endura _ .”

 

Tailgate was vibrating, holding his own small, glowing vial of energon in the cup of his hands, even as he crawled over, vocalizer spitting static.

 

_ “!!!!!---YES!” _

 

Tailgate dove into Cyclonus’ arms, crawling straight over his sturdy waist, and shivered, seemingly torn between clutching the vials and clutching the other mech.

 

Cyclonus took the vials and set them aside, making the decision for them, and wrapping up his little one in his arms. He arranged the minibot across his lap, one small leg to each side of his own hips, and nuzzled Tailgate’s facemask in a facsimile of a kiss. Tailgate’s hands began a roaming trail across Cyclonus’ helm and shoulders, plucking into seams and sparking static across the larger’s plating.

 

Cyclonus on his part braced one servo behind himself, and the other came up to return the caresses that Tailgate was bestowing upon him, claws delicately scratching Tailgate’s clearcoat. He found every one of the smaller’s sensitive wires and abused them liberally, until Tailgate atop him shivered, and a quiet sound froze both mechs in their place.

 

“Oh my stars --I’m sorry Cyclonus! I didn’t mean to!”

 

Cyclonus glanced down, to Tailgate’s exposed valve and spike, standing proud at the apex of his magnificent thighs. Tailgate immediately reached down to cover himself, hiding himself neatly in the shadow of his servos. Cyclonus sat up, slowly tipping the minibot back against his legs, and picking up the smaller’s hands, taking them away from their coveted embarrassment. 

 

“No no,” Cyclonus said, vocalizer rumbling deep enough to match his engine’s sudden, sharp humming, “let me see.”

 

“Cyclonus, we’re in public!”

“Tailgate, I want  _ everyone  _ to see this. I want  _ everyone  _ to see how beautiful you are, and I want  _ everyone  _ to know that they can never have you, because you’re  _ mine _ . I want Rewind to record if for the future, so that  _ they _ can be jealous of my fortunes.” Cyclonus led Tailgate’s little servos to his chest, and then brought the vials of their energon to them. “Hold.”

 

Tailgate took them, “Cy--”

 

“Shhh...Let me.”

 

Cyclonus’ servos began a roaming venture across Tailgate’s frame, ghosting gently over all the gaps of seams and searching out every curve and scratch. “Tailgate, this evening cycle, I am going to  _ ruin you  _ with paint transfers.”

 

Tailgate’s engine revved so hard Cyclonus felt the vibration straight through to the floor underneath him. “Please, Cyclonus -- _ touch me. _ ”

 

The larger mech’s servos trailed to Tailgate’s valve, and pressed straight into his anterior node, flushed with energon and perky for attention. “AH!”

 

“Careful, little one, if you cry loudly like that you may call someone here.”

 

“Mean!” Tailgate hissed, holding the vials close to his faceplate.

 

Cyclonus took the little spike in servo, careful of the sharps of his claws, covering the squat spike in one fist, easily. He began a slow, teasing stroke, focusing on the little one’s face.

 

“Ah! Ah -- _ Cyclonus! _ ” Tailgate wailed, “Nooo, hurry up!”

 

Instead, the other took one thumb, and pressed into the moist valve presented him. Tailgate jerked and spat static. Tailgate’s EM buffeted Cyclonus with a thin betrayal layered thickly with heat. Cyclonus’ reflected back a mischief he’d thought he’d left behind in his youth --and he replaced his thumb with two much larger digits, keeping his pace of Tailgate’s spike the same, steady squeeze.

 

“Uuughhh,  _ Cyyyy! _ ”

 

“Ha. It’s alright little one. Just let me look at you.” Tailgate revved and sparked, his core temperature raising. Cyclonus felt it through the servos he had buried inside the other, and opened a few spare vents across his spine to spew steam. The servos stuffed into Tailgate set up a rhythm counter to the one playing over his spike, and his whine was set off with the quiet pinging of rapid-heated metal.

 

The large purple mech let himself look his fill, absorbing every moment and locking it in the deepest part of his CPU, under every encryption he could think of and under the highest resolution he was capable of. Every sound was lovingly recorded, as Tailgate fell apart over him.

 

“Cy! Cy!  _ Cyclonus!!! _ ”

 

The little spike spat ropes of transfluid all over one fist while Tailgate’s valve gushed a more translucent lubricant all over Cyclonus’ lap, leaving the minibot twitching and bleary in the light of roughly a million distant stars. Cyclonus slowed his servos motions, and eased them to a stop before taking the mess and slowly smearing it into Tailgate’s plating like some bizarre form of shine wax. “Beautiful,” he rumbled.

 

“I’ll say!” said Whirl from  _ far too close _ down the corridor, “Came for the starlight parade and some solitude,  _ stayed  _ for the show!”

 

Between calming Tailgate’s immediate embarrassed squawking and the necessary clean-up to make himself presentable, Cyclonus’ own rising charge had quickly faded, the shenanigans leaving Whirl  _ more  _ than enough time to begin disseminating the information of their changed relationship status to the rest of the crew via the only reliable news system on the ship: talking about secrets at  _ Swerve’s _ . By the time Cyclonus stormed in, carrying Tailgate on one arm as the minibot hid in his shoulder, half the patrons knew, and the other half learned as soon as the first half cheered their congratulations.

 

“You show them yours, too,” Cyclonus said, tucking his chain back into the protected plates of his armor.

 

“Kay!” Tailgate giggled, and reached into his subspace. “Cy still needs to pick out a chain!”

 

Cyclonus nodded, and returned his attention back to the bar and it’s patrons. Examining again the besotted look on Chromedome’s visor and mask, the wide and loving smiles of the other two minibots, and the general cheer of Swerve’s bar.

 

“Yes,” he said, at some length, “I think a platinum would look lovely with your armor --do you agree, Tailgate?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am writing these daily because apparently I hate myself enough to do Inktober and kinktober at the same time for the first time each, AND I don't get home from work until, like, 7 pm. HAHA.
> 
> It is currently 2:52 AM and I wake up at 6:30 to go to work. I was up to similar times yesterday. Please please PLEASE let me know if you see typos or weird grammar. My eyes are crossing.
> 
> Comments feed muses!!!!


	4. Bukakke/Begging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyclonus gives a BJ.
> 
> Not 100% happy with this, but I'll take it so I can go to bed.

Cyclonus slurped along Tailgate’s short, fat spike, horns in a vice-grip in the tiny powerhouse’s fists. The larger mech bobbed his helm, glossa working desperately to make up for the lack of proper lip components to get anything like suction. Tailgate, sat on the edge of his berth and shapely legs hung over Cyclonus’ shoulders, jerked and cried out.

 

“Ah! Right there, Cyclonus! Just like  _ that! _ ”

 

Cyclonus tried out a few quick movements until he found just the right angle that sent his little lover into spasms. It was Tailgate’s spike head rubbing  _ just so _ against the rubber seal between his upper palate and the delicate silicon tubing of his esophagus. He kept it up until Tailgate, lost in sensations Cyclonus could only guess at, thrust sharply into Cyclonus’ intake.

 

He reeled back, hacking.

 

“Sorry! I’m sorry Cyclonus, do you need to stop?” Tailgate asked, EM field jittery near overload and thoroughly distracted. “We can stop if you need to?”

 

Cyclonus coughed roughly, a horrible hacking sound, then spat a gob of mixed esophageal lubricants and pre-fluid onto the habsuite floor. He shook his helm, and sunk back down on the pressurized spike, holding Tailgate’s shivering legs open with delicately gentle, clawed servos. Taking careful care not to sink too far.

 

Tailgate groaned, a distinctly human noise he’d picked up off the other Autobots that Cyclonus tried desperately to find less charming.

 

Tailgate’s white digits spasmed on Cyclonus’ horns, jerking him back, until only the head of Tailgate’s spike was settled in the other’s mouth, twitching. “Not yet!” he hissed, “I don’t want to blow yet!”

 

Cyclonus nodded, letting Tailgate’s spike slip from his denta, and turning to lave across the fat silicone length with his glossa, the cloyingly sweet taste of the smaller’s prefluid still deep in his sensors. The ex-decepticon was desperately fond of the scent, even after a lifetime of preferring the savory over the sweet. Tailgate always tasted faintly of sweetened copper, and Cyclonus had dedicated many cycles to the idle investigation of why that was.

 

Tailgate maneuvered Cyclonus downwards, to his covered valve, and Cyclonus nuzzled and caressed gratefully. Careful explorations of his nasle ridge and glossa rediscovered Tailgate’s favorite quirks of anatomy, and the panel went stiff and ungiving with the pressure of energon-flushed valve lips kissing the other side. Cyclonus’s olfactory swam with chemical desperation.

 

“Please-- _ please _ Tailgate.”

 

“Hmmm?”

 

Cyclonus rolled his face against the little valve, processor swimming. “Please?”

 

“Please what?”

Cyclonus turned his helm up, leaning into Tailgate’s spike, laid out across the right side of his face, covering it from chin to just under his optic. Cyclonus didn’t resist the urge to give the organ a light, quick kiss with a bare twist of his helm. “Please,” he repeated, turning his red-opticed gaze to Tailgate’s ethereal visor, “Overload on my face.”

 

The specks of light across Tailgate’s frame jittered, and Cyclonus’ fuzzy processor took a split-micron too long to realize that it was Tailgate shuddering, and not the world around them.

 

Cyclonus was pressed backwards by little white hands that could rip limbs off mechs twice Cyclonus’ size, and the purple mech let them disappear to the lower portion of his peripheral view to focus on the white helm gazing down at him. Tailgate was wreathed in steam, condensing on his platting and multiplying the lights reflected off him hundreds-fold.

 

The white servo blurred at the edge of Cyclonus’ view.

 

“Say please again, Cyclonus.”

 

The bigger bot swiped his glossa across his denta, “ _ please, Tailgate _ ,” he said, breathless.

 

Tailgate moaned, long and loud, transfluid spitting from his spike and all over Cyclonus’ faceplates. The elder offlined his optics to take in the sensation of warmth spattering his forehelm, eyes, and cheek hollows. His jaw dropped, to catch the last few spurts across his glossa.

 

Tailgate panted quietly, plating faintly pinging and chiming as his overload ended, and his chassis cooled.

 

Cyclonus onlined his optics.

 

“Hey,” Tailgate said, “You’re smiling.”

  
Cyclonus, most dower and bitter bot on the  _ Lost Light,  _ was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, this is VERY MUCH not edited, and I write these when I get home from work (very long days, lately indeed.) so PLEASE: If you see something awkward in grammar or spelling or WHATEVA let me know!
> 
> FEED MUSES WITH COMMENTS!!!


	5. Cuckold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt is Cuckolding, which I'm not entirely certain I really got right, but HEY! I'm not betaed, so I'll liiiive!!!
> 
> Today's chapter also guest stars Chromedome and Rewind, with a side-helping of Dom/Sub dynamics!

Tailgate sighed softly, “Wowee, Rewind, that feels  _ nice. _ ”

 

Rewind chuckled thoughtfully, servos sinking sinfully into Tailgate’s plush valve. “I know, I’m very, very old, Tailgate. I have  _ practice _ .”

 

Tailgate, facemask flushed prettily with condensation, giggled saucily, “Heehee, you’ve had a  _ lot  _ of practice?”

“Yes, Tailgate.”

 

“ _ Heeheehee!  _ You self-service a lot,” the little blue bot said, EM field sparking and jumping erratically in mirth. The answering fond pulse from Rewind softened the sharp sting of his dull digits pinching the other’s swollen anterior node.

 

“Be good, Tailgate-- or you get  _ punished. _ That isn’t fun, is it, Domey?”

 

Tailgate moaned, legs spreading and hips canting, and wiggling for good measure. Chromedome, sat on a stiff chair on the other side of the hab, vented shakily with a nod, “I wouldn’t make a habit of being...naughty...if I were in your position, Tailgate.”

 

Tailgate huffed, “I’m not naughty! I’m spunky --right, Cyclonus?”

 

The tall, purple jet was sat on the opposite end of the berth from Tailgate and Rewind, facing them, utterly forbidden from speaking or touching. His red-eyed glower was Tailgate’s only answer outside of a heated pulse of his field. Tailgate giggled, “See? He agrees.”

 

Rewind pulled the bulkier minibot into a deeper lean against his chassis, and redoubled the efforts of his servos, stabbing into Tailgate’s valve to unerringly hit a cluster of nodes. “You know, Tailgate, you’re a lot cuter when you’re not being a  _ smart aft _ .”

 

“Ah!  _ Ah! _ Okay, okay!”

 

Rewind nuzzled Tailgate’s helm, and gave the abused folds a fond pat. Hugging Tailgate, Rewind rocked for a moment, and reached for Tailgate’s knees, his dorsal kip making the reach a little awkward, but bearable. He took the other’s knee joints in servo and pulled up and back, spreading the angrily flushed valve for Cyclonus’ viewing.

 

“Look at how  _ wet _ he is, Cyclonus! He’s practically in a puddle! Have you been servicing him properly?”Offense rolled through Cyclonus’ field. Rewind chuckled. Tailgate giggled.

 

“Of course he does! He is  _ very good _ at satisfying me! I’ve never seen a spike as big as his!”

 

“Oh? Is that so? What about a spike actually meant to  _ fit you?” _

 

Tailgate’s twisted helm was all the answer Rewind needed. He slapped the sloppy valve a few times, flinging lubricants all over the berth and across Cyclonus’ legs. Tailgate wailed. Then Rewind tipped the other mini forward, onto his servos and knees.

 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

“You  _ didn’t  _ warn m-- _ ulp! _ ”

Rewind slammed home into the other bot’s body. “AHH! Oh! Ooohh--Rewind, what is  _ that? _ ”

 

“ _ That _ , dear Tailgate is the sensation of your anterior node being stimulated while you’re getting the lights fragged out of you. A sensation you don’t get when your partners hips don’t get close enough to touch you. Now try  _ this  _ one!”

 

Rewind ground his hips in a circle, causing Tailgate to white-noise out on his cry. “Oh frag! Oh  _ Primus! _ ” the rough plowing set every sensory cluster in Tailgate’s lower half to go haywire, halfway on their way to mechanical meltdown.

 

“Don’t worry about it, Tailgate, you can call me Rewind.” The grey minibot took Tailgate’s hips in servo and set up a rough rhythm, alternating between the rough thrusts ramming Tailgate’s ceiling node, and the harsh grinding against his anterior node. “Look up at Cyclonus, Tailgate, show him how much you’re enjoying my spike.”

 

Tailgate did, though he kept his optics off, not sure he could withstand the sight of Cyclonus’ faceplates without either offlining from embarrassment or overloading on the spot.

 

“I’m not seeing a pretty blue glow!” Rewind sing-songed, and Tailgate re-evaluated Rewind’s threat level in the back of his processor. “Turn that pretty visor on, TG!”

 

Tailgate did, optics adjusting to the bouncing movement of his chassis soon enough. Vision rebooting, Tailgate took stock of Cyclonus. The bigger bot was heaving vents, condensation covering him and dripping down the wall behind him. If Tailgate wasn’t very careful during their cleanup, something was going to oxidize and rust. His large purple frame wasn’t still, either, the way Tailgate had imagined with his optics off. He was jerking like a slum-junkie denied his fix, and Tailgate….Tailgate  _ was  _ the fix.

 

Tailgate’s HUD flashed an “overload imminent” warning.

 

A soft noise to the side slowed the slim mini’s pace immediately, “Domey?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Domey, don’t be naughty.”

 

The large mnemosurgeon jerked, “I just thought...if Tailgate usually plays carrier, maybe he would want to use his spike…” every part of the tall orange bot’s field spoke to his guilty hope, and Rewind’s own field bleed satisfaction.

 

“ _ Oh _ , you are  _ very naughty _ , Domey!.... _ Good boy. _ ”

 

Chromedome swelled, his huge shoulders perking up and plating fluffing out.

 

“Chromedome,” Rewind ordered, “Get on the berth, head in Cyclonus’ lap, please. Tailgate, pop your spike panel.”

 

Tailgate’s panel sprung free almost before the glyphs left Rewind’s mouth. Meanwhile, Chromedome was shuffling onto the berth and delicately laying himself down with only slight shivers of nerves. Once he’d settled with one long,  _ long _ leg on either side of the minibots, his helm turned obediently to Rewind.

 

“May I?”

 

“Of course!”

 

The valve panel  _ sniikked _ aside to show a deeply orange valve dripping in lubricant. It seemed so large, Tailgate had the strange thought that he might manage putting his whole servo into it. “Wowee,” he said, breathlessly.

 

Chromedome reached down with two careful and practicedly steady hands to pull the silicone lips apart, showing the winking orange and yellow biolights that trailed deeper into the frame.

 

Before Tailgate could finish admiring it, a small red servo grabbed ahold of his spike and lined him up. The heat pouring off of Chromedome seared into Tailgate’s memory. 

 

“Ready? Set? Go!”

 

“ _ AAHHH!!!! _ ”

 

“ _ UMMPHH _ ! Oh,  _ oh _ !...oh stars…”

 

Rewind shushed them both. “Do you like that fat spike, Domey?”

 

“Yes! Yes!” 

 

“Good. Do you like that valve, Tailgate? No, look me in the optics. You do? Good.” He nodded, as though instead of having an orgy, they were simply co-workers picnicing on the observations room “briefing” table.

 

“And you, Cyclonus?”

 

Taigate’s helm whipped up, and fever-bright visor met fever-high ruby. Cyclonus was no longer sitting up straighter than the pole shoved up his (extremely tight) waste chute. He was crouching, hips twitching against Chromedome’s helm with each of Rewind’s careful thrusts. His field was erratic, partly shame, but mostly overwhelming lust and greed.

 

“Ready?”

 

Tailgate whimpered, and Chromedome wrapped his arms around Tailgate’s shoulders.

 

The pace jumped up again, and Tailgate lost himself to the sway as unbending as the changing of the tides. Rewind began to speak.

 

“That’s it, Cyclonus, lean in. What’s it like, being able to see your minibot lover finally pleased this way? By the look of that spike it’s exciting. Should I give him a mark or two before I go? Right here perhaps? Or here? My denta aren’t as sharp as yours, it may take me a moment or two to get through the protective layers of alumi-steel to find his struts, but it would be worth it, don’t you think? This really is a  _ radiant _ valve. Perfect fit, and for being used by a mech as big as you? Surprisingly tight.”

 

Chromedome peeped, and Tailgate’s vocals went to static emission.

 

“I’m sorry, Domey, I forgot about you. How long has it been since you’ve had a spike that fat in your slutty valve?”

 

Chromedome whimpered, “I-I-- _ kkkssscczzzzkk _ \--I  _ never! _ ”

 

Rewind’s pace faltered, and Tailgate cried out, shifting in desperate little thrusts to get the friction back. Rewind’s blinking camera light had come on.

 

“Why didn’t you say so, Domey? This needs to be recorded for the ages! Do you think Rodimus would like a copy?”

 

Tailgate wailed, and splattered his transfluid into Chromedome’s sloppy valve. “Ah!  _ Ahhh _ !”

 

Cyclonus full-on jerked, optics flaring bright, vocalizer on lockdown. Tailgate leaned in, and Cyclonus followed, though neither broke the touching rule.

 

“Aw, already?” Rewind said, grinding soft and slow as the other minibot revved down.

 

Cyclonus probed Tailgate’s EM field with a brief question, unexpected, but...decidedly devious.

 

“Yes, already, Rewind. Now. Don’t stop, if you hurry up about it, you might give me a second overload.”

 

Rewind jerked again, then the sly deviousness sparking off his field turned decidedly mischievous. “Hey, Domey? Do you want Tailgate to fill you up and get you sparked?” The larger mech whimpered and nodded desperately into the crook of Tailgate’s neck cables.

 

Rewind hummed, “You’re whim is my command!”

 

The pace following the declaration was swift and brutal. A slim grey frame poundied a blockier white aft at speed, which in turn powered the thrusts of the larger minibot into the ravenous valve of a mnemosurgeon below him. Above them all, Cyclonus staired, the hunger in his field palpable, but dura-steel discipline keeping him still, sat on the edge of the berth.

 

_ “Ahh! Ahhhhh! AAAggghhh, frag!” _

 

_ “Fragfragfragfragfrag!!!” _

 

_ “Ooohh, yeah, yeah! Squeeze again Tailgate! Yeeessss….” _

 

The first to go was Chromedome, one sneaky needled hand furiously rubbing at his node. He set off Tailgate, who flooded the bigger bot with his spendings, and only pulled out when it was over to wipe his spike on the other’s hip. Tailgate didn’t have to wait long for Rewind after that, a few sharp tugs with his inner calipers put the other mini over the edge and tumbling into overload, and all three in the heap slowly vented the overheated air in the room in a vain attempt to cool down.

 

Tailgate rolled his optics towards Cyclonus. “Hey, Cy...I’ll get up to take care of you soon, okay?”

 

“No need.”

 

“No need?”

 

Cyclonus, upright and regal even shiny with condensation and spatterings of transfluid on his chassies nodded towards his lap. There, obvious as the sun, was the evidence of Cyclonus’ personal enjoyment.

 

Tailgate’s visor grinned wickedly at the fluid dripping off Cyclonus’ breastplates where he had sprayed himself without a touch.

 

“Hey Rewind? When can we do this again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, please point out any typos/spelling mistakes/ grammar errors you see! I post these at RIDICULOUS o'clock, and finish writing them while mostly asleep at my keyboard. I really can't see right now. Spots are floating in front of my eyes.
> 
> COMMENTS FEED THE MUSE!!! FEED MEE!!!


	6. Size Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there was ever a kink made for this pairing...THIS IS IT.

Cyclonus laid back on his berth, parting his legs and laying back against the wall so he could have a good view of his half-pint lover, bright blue and incandescent with excitement. Tailgate’s visor was flickering as his optics darted from place to place across Cyclonus’ reclined frame, taking in sharp biolights and harsh edges and seeing something Cyclonus wasn’t really sure existed there --a bot worth loving.

 

With a soft hiss, Cyclonus’ valve cover slid aside, revealing himself to Tailgate’s enraptured gaze. The tiny bot, almost completely sheltered by Cyclonus’ knees --propped up like walls on either side of his little frame, held his tiny servos out, digits clawed and reaching, almost afraid to touch the offered protoflesh.

 

“Are...are you sure, Cyclonus? You really want me to?”

 

“Absolutely, my little one. I once told you, I wanted all of you --that includes this.”

 

Two small digits ghosted across the flat silver of Cyclonus’ abdomen, metal singing in whispers as they caressed their way down to the creases on either side of the plush valve. “Wowee,” he said, softly.

 

“Do you want my servos first?”

 

“That,” the taller mech said, deep voice rumbling through his lowest RPMs, “would likely be a good idea...it has been...quite a while.”

 

Tailgate’s EM swarmed before he visibly wrangled it.

 

“Okay.”

 

The minibot began with swirling his digits around the exposed anterior node, encouraging it to flush and stiffen, “Does this feel good, Cyclonus?”

 

Cyclonus nodded, rumble still slow and calm, though the slowly rising heat of his frame betrayed his enjoyment of the attention. He reached down with one claw and caressed across the top of Tailgate’s helm, and the other leaned up to it. 

 

Tailgate pressed into Cyclonus’ valve with digits on his other servo, the channel heating and squeezing around the intrusion. Then again, Tailgate, from helm to pede was all of a height to Cyclonus’ hip, each part of him was smaller and built for a partner half the size of the one he had. The squeezing felt inexorable, but even at their tightest, there was still room in between Cyclonus’ calipers.

 

Cyclonus hummed and shifted, to encourage the digits’ exploration of his nodes and sensors, each humming in time with the pulse of his field.

 

“Good?”

 

“Yes...you can use your spike now.”

 

Tailgate hummed, and removed his digits. Little servos took hold of Cyclonus’ hips, plates clinking. Cyclonus warmed to know the minibot was so excited.

 

Tailgate transformed away his panel with a command, and his lovely spike pressurized against Cyclonus’ folds, not quite slipping in yet, but burning hot and  _ thick. _ What the diminutive bot couldn’t boast for in length, he more than made up for in girth. Cyclonus’ calipers throbbed, and his valve drooled clean, faintly pink lubricant onto the mesh beneath himself.

 

“Come, Tailgate --make me feel good.”

 

Tailgate nodded so hard he almost fell over, bracing himself on one of Cyclonus’ knee joints. He used one servo to hold his thick spike steady, though to Cyclonus’ folds he felt solid enough to hammer rivets. The servo on Cyclonus’ knee was shaking.

 

The first press was the hardest, Cyclonus wasn’t quite stretched enough, and it had been many long millenia since he’d taken anything so thick. The ache of it spread through his hip array, numbing his pedes for a moment before adjusting. It felt a little like having a short length of his inner mechanisms rearranged, but pleasantly.

 

Tailgate moaned unabashedly, “Oh, Cyclonus! Cy- _ clo _ -nus! You feel so good!!” The little bot arched and cried out, shoving his thick spike as deep as the short length would allow, grinding their plating and probably leaving a wealth of paint transfers on his purple plating.

 

The soft silicone of Cyclonus’ protoflesh squelched, and Tailgate began to thrust in ernest, shivering, and venting harsh, and revving the tiny high-pitched engine. It clunked along, never meant for speed or precision like Cyclonus’ own, and every thrum and rattle made the large purple bot ache, charmed.

 

He pulled one leg across Tailgate’s back and dragged his little one to drape over his abdomen, with the changed angle, the fat, little spike scraped over a few dorsal nodes more forcefully, and the full weight of Tailgates hips lay into Cyclonus’ anterior node with every frantic thrust. “ _ Ah, Tailgate, yes! _ ” Cyclonus hissed, EM flaring to tangle with the smaller bot’s. He put a servo on the back of Tailgate’s helm, nearly covering it entirely, to hold him to his plating, to the pit with transfers.

 

“AHHH! Oh Primus,  _ Cyclonus _ !” The little bot’s vocalizer was layered thickly with static, and his pace jumped, more a circular grind than a proper forward and back. Cyclonus  _ felt  _ the spill of Transfluid inside, filling the rest of his valve and slopping against the further-back nodes to shock and charge them. Tailgate jerked once.

 

Twice.

 

Then stilled, frame going limp across the bigger mech’s hips. Despite his stature, Cyclonus felt oddly  _ held. _

 

“I---ha--I’ll...I’ll take care of you in a minute, Cy…”

 

Cyclonus chuckled, deep and rich like the jellied energon of the golden age, “I’m sure you will little one, but for now --no no, stay inside me-- for now, recharge. I will take my fill of you when you are more rested.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEED THE MUSE.  
> *COMMENT, PLZ*


	7. Body Worship/ Creampie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I...like?...this one. It's a little longer, and I don't hate it? What even? For some reason this one came in really clear to me.
> 
> Anyway, have some washrack messing around between my favorite Tol!andSmol!
> 
> Edit to have publish date correct!

Tailgate sat primly on the edge of his berth fresh from a day of work on the  _ Lost Light. _ He didn’t have the most glamorous job, but it was necessary, and he was friends with enough of the crew --or at least, well thought of by enough-- that they helped keep his job relatively easy. After their last few cycles, though, Tailgate was getting pretty slagging tired of whichever bot was in charge of wrangling their more exuberant co-captain from some of his...messier ideas. They weren’t doing a good job, and in the end, it was Tailgate’s job to clean the fragging floors...when no one had torqued Ultra Magnus off enough for porter duty.

 

Cyclonus entered their hab to see Tailgate contemplating himself in the reflection off their small viewport. “Good evening, Tailgate.”

 

“Hey, Cyclonus.”

 

Cyclonus went about his routine, quietly removing a padd from his subspace and placing it on a shelf, picking up another padd from their desk and flicking it on to check the contents. Tailgate idly scratched a patch of build-up off the corner of his forearm plating and flicked it to the floor.

 

He immediately felt guilty and picked it up to place it properly in the waste bin.

 

Cyclonus reached to his shelf (the higher one), and pulled down a small basket that Tailgate immediately recognized.

 

“Are you going to the washracks, Cyclonus?!”

 

Cyclonus looked to his companion, “Yes.”

 

“Oh! We can go together! What do you think? I can scrub your back!”

 

Cyclonus paused a click, staring down at Tailgate, taking in his filthy plating.

 

“As you wish.”

Tailgate hopped in place, his pedes clomping, dust and other crud flaking off. Tailgate slid his washrack basket out from under his berth. Together, they left for the public washracks, at the end of their residential block of the  _ Lost Light. _

 

“I wonder who will be there! Do you think Rewind and Chromedome will be there? They’re on this side of the reidentiary, right? Maybe Whirl will be there? Oh--um, maybe he won’t be, please don’t frown that way.” The smaller mech rambled all the way down the corridor and the next, only pausing when the doorway to the washracks opened, and they found the whole entryway empty, and the racks beyond silent outside of a lonely drip that haunted the first stall in. “Or...we could be by ourselves.”

 

“I prefer this.”

 

Tailgate giggled, “That’s so you, Cyclonus!”

 

The entered, and Cyclonus’ attention seemed to drift off the blue bot next to him as they both entered the nozzle area and the warm solvent sprays began to rain down. Tailgate continued to talk, just to fill the silence. His topics roamed from the disappointment of having no other bots with them, to what some of the other bots had planned for movie night, through what Rodimus’ plans had left for Tailgate to clean up, and sequed neatly into the little gritty bits that Tailgate was having a hard time getting out, including a little sharp rock or  _ something _ that had been lodged between two of his spinal blocks for an orn, and while it didn’t cause him  _ pain _ it sure had been inconvenient when he had to reach up high for things --wasn’t it lucky his habmate was so tall?

 

Tailgate was gently pulled around to face his towering lover, “Why did you not tell me of this object before now?”

 

Tailgate beamed happily though a brightly lit visor, “It’s not that important, Cyclonus. Mostly I just forgot about it. I would have definitely gotten you to pick it out with your claws if--ooh!”

 

Cyclonus slowly lowered himself to kneel on the washrack floor, putting himself more on level with the minibot. “Do you have a water pick?” he asked, deep voice rumbling.

 

“N-no.”

 

“Then I will be gentle with mine.”

 

“O-okay.” Tailgate feared his vocals were laced with aroused static. Cyclonus was offering to pick grit out of his armor! It was odd to be struck by that as arousing, given that they fragged regularly --another thing Tailgate sometimes had a hard time believing actually happened--but it seemed more intimate, somehow.

 

Cyclonus gently turned the little bot away again, and Cyclonus began to verbally guide him into bending far enough that the other’s red gaze could find the source of his discomfort. With a sharp sting of a tiny jet of high-pressure water, the little pebble of debris was forced loose, and Tailgate vented deep.

 

“Thank you, Cyclonus!”

 

“Shhhh, quiet, now…” Tailgate twisted his helm to face the bot behind him, but was stopped by a single large claw and guided away again. The same big hands leaned his smaller white servos against the washrack wall, slick with solvent, and then Tailgate’s wire brushes were dragged out of his sight.

 

Carefully, methodically, Cyclonus brushed and picked every seam of Tailgate’s dorsal side. His heavy hood was lovingly scrubbed with the coarse cloth, and his shoulders were explored with the water pick, throwing out small chunks of rock and metal that Tailgate hadn’t even been aware of. His elbows were summarily examined, each arm pulled away from the wall then replaced after their scrub, leaving Tailgate dripping in solvent scrubs. Each leg was studied and cleaned, even the very bottoms of his pedes, though he almost kicked Cyclonus in the process.

 

“Sorry, I’m--!”

 

“Shhh, I’ll be more gentle.”

 

One massive hand smoothed down his side, a stroke for a nervous pet, almost. Tailgate realized abruptly how high his core temperature had gotten, and opened a few of his vents, careful to circulate the air slowly, so the suds wouldn’t fling onto his partner.  Cyclonus’ detailed scrubbing finished with the outsides of his legs, and then creeped up the insides inch by inch.

 

“I can get that part!” Tailgate yelped when Cyclonus reached his valve panel, tucked just at their apex. His servo shot down, landing over Cyclonus’, which still held the coarse cloth. He twisted to look at the kneeling mech behind him, visor blowing white with his mortification --there was no way the other didn’t feel the heat radiating off the thin sheet of metal. Meeting his optics, Cyclonus began to scrub the panel gently. Tailgate groaned, and dropped his helm. His little hand followed the strokes of Cyclonus’ over his panel as it slowly increased in speed and pressure until he was sure his panel would pop right there, or his increasingly loud noises, pulled out of his vocalizer against his conscious will, would bring some unsuspecting mech in to see them.

 

Just before his panel clicked, Cyclonus took his servo away. Tailgate complained, until he was turned around, and the loving attention to his frame was repeated on his planer side, starting at his face, scrubbed gently with the same cloth that had been pleasuring his panel. His arms were next, His wheels scrubbed and waterpicked until they spun with hardly a flick, his finger joints each popped and moved as the little cleaner leaned against the dripping wall, steam fogging his vision outside of the pocket where he and Cyclonus were present. After his arms were his legs, fronts first, then inside again. Just as tailgate was getting ready for another disappointing assault on his panel Cyclonus reached up past it, to circle and swirl on the blue abdomen and chest. Each sensitive seam paid careful attention for debris and dirt, especially the larger seam across his upper torso, the closest seam to his spark.

 

“ _ Cyclonus _ ,” he whispered, mostly static.

 

The laser-like focus of the other’s optics flicked up, and he rose to press a gentle kiss to Tailgate’s helm, clawed servo still rubbing at that seam sensually.

 

Tailgate was pulled away from the wall and into the warm solvent spray, the head of the rack pulled away into a handle that could be maneuvered to hard-to-reach spots. It wasn’t something Tailgate usually did, as he would need to stand on a booster to reach, but as Cyclonus carefully moved it around his frame, one hand guarding his face so his optics wouldn’t be splashed, the smaller bot definitely got the idea of the appeal. From top to bottom he was rinsed, then again, just to be sure. He was about to bring his optics online again to thank Cyclonus for the wash when the washer head was trailed lazily across his body, and left to rest right between his hips, just over his spike panel.

 

“Yes?” Cyclonus asked, vocals thick.

 

Tailgate shuddered, blasting a vent, “ _ Yes. _ ”

 

The spray was directed lower, over his closed panel, dancing over the hidden head of his spike. It was absurd to say that Tailgate could feel the water through the metal, but the bot could think of no other way to describe the sensation. Tailgate openly moaned, bracing against the wall and spreading his legs wider. The pressure and need took a cycle to gear up, Tailgate twitching and moaning as solvent blasted into his panels, first one, then the other, back and forth in a maddening dance his hips and struts couldn’t keep time with.

 

Just like before, the pleasure was taken before his panels popped. This time leaving them warm and soaking, faint lines of pink lubricant leaking from their seams. Tailgate’s visor onlined to see Cyclonus putting all their cleaning supplies away, and Tailgate, saddened, pushed himself off the wall. They probably had pushed their luck too far already.

 

They passed the s-bend to move from the wet zone to the dry one, and Tailgate let himself be led to a cursory blow-drying at one of the stations, Cyclonus taking one of his own soon after. Helpfully, while the larger finished drying his gears, Tailgate used the extra time afforded him from his small stature to dry their washing things so they wouldn’t drip on the walk back to their hab. It didn’t take more than a click, so Tailgate let his armor puff up, and the warm vented air to fill all the gaps between his armor and protoflesh.

 

Cyclonus stepped out of his drying vent and Tailgate hopped out of his, ready to head back, but Cyclonus nodded his head to the wax rack. Tailgate froze.

 

He’d never been waxed. Not really. Of course, after his frame had been constructed it had been waxed, but that was before Tailgate was  _ in  _ it. After that, he and the other waste disposal bots would spot-wax areas that had been eaten of by various cleaning-acids, but those were all cursory cleanings. Enough for basic hygiene, but they couldn’t spare the time from their designated rest cycle for more than that.

 

“I don’t have any wax,” Tailgate said truthfully, rubbing a pede-tip into the floor, moving it in little figure eights bashfully.

 

“I do,” Cyclonus rumbled. Were his vocals staticy? They were definitely deeper than usual. Tailgate nodded, and moved to the benches there, setting down their things.

 

Tailgate watched Cyclonus rummage through his things to pull out a large silver tin with a green label. “This is first,” said Cyclonus, “It goes on with a buffing cloth.” Tailgate reached for the offered cloths, but Cyclonus’ longer arms reached them first.

 

He scooped a generous amount on the cloth, and guided Tailgate around. The pattern from the shower was repeated, Tailgate’s dorsal side being scrubbed and rubbed as the paste buffed out the worst scratches and evened out metal shave-away. His valve panel was rubbed until Tailgate almost felt sure it was glowing, lubricants were leaking, and then abruptly abandoned to turn him around for the same treatment across his front, once again giving him a thorough covering from helm to pede that lasted just long enough to take the edge off his crackling charge before attacking his spike panel.

 

Tailgate whimpered as the pleasurable rag was removed from the creases of his crotch and another tin was popped open. He powered his visor just enough to get that the tin this time was one with a blue lid.

 

“This is second,” Cyclonus said, and Tailgate moaned at the extremely tight hiss of his vocals, “Now we will use a buffing pad.”

 

Tailgate turned and braced his servos against the wall without prompting. He would miss the feel of Cyclonus’ servos and digits, but if it meant that Cyclonus would keep up the sensations, he  _ honestly did not care. _ The buffer revved up, echoed by Tailgate’s own petit engine, and then the most  _ peculiar _ feeling followed. The buffer almost  _ tickled _ , but only if a tickle was felt further than derma-deep. It rattled the little bot, right down to his struts, and Tailgate felt his helm dip as he moaned. He arched for it, every retreat of the buffer against his plates followed, begging with his body to continue, to stay. He almost vibrated in place when the path of the buffer was smoothing up the insides of his legs, knowing it’s last destination on this side of his frame.

 

Tailgate was almost certain he’d knocked offline when the spinning buffer pad was pressed to his valve panel, it vibrated right through the metal and straight to his clenching calipers and sparking ceiling node. He dropped back into his senses though, one of Cyclonus’ servos pinning his helm to the wall to keep him from falling over, with the added bonus of thrusting his hips back to expose himself more to the whirring apparatus. Too quickly, the buzzing tool was removed, and Tailgate guided around.

 

Tailgate panted through the treatment of his front, then cried denial as the buffer barely ghosted over his spike panel at the end.

 

“Shhh, little one. The last paste is the end, the wait will be worth it.”

 

Tailgate’s blurry vision showed Cyclonus loading a fresh bufferpad with a light lavender paste --gloss paste, his processor idly reminded him-- and then wobbled around. Cyclonus helped him kneel over the bench when his knees nearly gave, each motion of his legs zinging up his struts to spark pleasurably across his whole frame. He could swear he could taste copper shavings.

 

The buffer was no less pleasurable on this final pass, but his valve panel was skipped in its entirety before Cyclonus again guided him to turn, lounging slack on the bench now. Tailgate’s visor flickered and shook through each buzzing pass nearby. He nearly overloaded as the buffer whirred across the seam over his spark, his hands grasping Cyclonus’ wrist in a desperate bid to keep the buffer in place --he was  _ so close! _

 

“P-p- _ please, Cyclonus! _ ”

 

Cyclonus moved the buffer away despite, setting it, still buzzing, off to the side. Tailgate groaned, but quieted as Cyclonus took hold of his hips and pulled him down, to the very edge of the bench. His pedes were pushed up and back, exposing both throbbing panels to the larger mech.

 

“ _ Hold _ ,” was the gruff command.

 

Tailgate took a hold of his knees and pulled them apart as wide as they would go.

 

“ _ Please _ ,” he repeated, soft and aching.

 

The buffer was pressed right over his spike panel and  _ dug in _ . Tailgate wailed, panel popping and his fat, little spike pressurizing right into the spinning pad. Tailgate’s wail morphed to a scream as a spike overload ripped through his over-sensitized frame. Glowing spurts of transfluid sprayed out and were flung all over his torso from the buffer pad’s wild rotation. It was too much --too much by far.

 

And then the buffer moved down to dig into his valve panel, already open and drooling.

 

Tailgate’s vocalizer rose in volume, then cracked out and all that was left was the extreme arch of his spinal strut and desperate venting of boiled air. Visor flickering out and helm shaking wildly, Tailgate could feel the splattering of his own lubrications all over his legs, over the buffer, onto his spike, onto his chin, the sound of it was  _ obscene. _

 

When it was over, Tailgate was ready to sleep for an orn, his limbs twitching. He was absolutely out. His legs didn’t even have the energy to uncurl, leaving his open panels exposed to the room, legs flopped open to either side and servos curled up by his chin. He onlined his optics, a full reboot would be needed to clear all the static, he was sure.

 

Cyclonus was leaning over him, one huge arm braced against the wall. Tailgate’s exhausted frame slowly looked down. The other of Cyclonus’ servos was moving down below. Tailgate followed the limb until he saw the servo at the end, rapidly engulfing the head of a spike and revealing it again. A tight sheathe encasing the big tool as Cyclonus brought himself off, transfluid joining the sticky mess all over Tailgate’s body, slopping against his valve entrance and over his spike and his abdomen. When the spurts slowed, Cyclonus pushed the broad head into Tailgate’s valve, the last sticky shot coated the inside, and Tailgate whimpered.

 

For a moment, all was silent.

 

Then the buffer started back up. Tailgate ignored it, Cyclonus hadn’t waxed himself after all.

 

His frame jerked as a fresh pad touched his chest, whirling in quick rotations. Slowly the pad traveled his body, smearing lubricants and transfluid into his gloss coat, buffing them in until everything in the general regions of his panels felt clean again. Tailgate twitching when Cyclonus manually shut his panels to buzz over them again. He spat static unhappily, but Cyclonus was undeterred, and Tailgate was too tired to stop him. Luckily it didn’t take long.

 

Tailgate fell asleep on the way back to their hab, Cyclonus humming to him as he carried his little lover down the corridors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep your comments coming in! They do help me! FEED THE MUSE!!


	8. Deep Throat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extremely short sequel to Day 7!  
> By the By, these shorts, while existing with many of the same headcanons as each other, are not necessarily a series of chapters. They are, in my mind, separate one-shots. BUT they shouldn't really contradict each other, either, so...if you choose to, read them as a series, if you so enjoy.  
> :)

Cyclonus kneeled low on the floor of their hab. Tailgate, glittering and pearlescent pink where Cyclonus had smeared their fluids into his gloss coat, stood above him, fat little spike already dripping, level with Cyclonus’ intake.

 

“Open,  _ now _ ,” the little bot demanded, and Cyclonus obeyed gratefully. The spike pushed in, not long enough to choke, but more than wide enough to stretch the bigger’s mandible mechanisms. The little spike tasted of sweetness cut by the bitterness of Cyclonus’ gloss wax. It was horrendous, but Cyclonus offlined his optics and sucked as best he could with the gaps in his cheeks. Tailgate began to thrust, short, sharp jabs of his hips that ground his pelvic plating into Cyclonus’ intake, and he swallowed each greedily.

 

Tailgate’s thrusts shortened into frantic grinding as he got closer, muttering praises about Cyclonus’ intake. His little servos grabbing Cyclonus’ horns roughly, then sliding down to the back of the larger mech’s helm, and holding on.

 

Cyclonus would take anything Tailgate deigned to give him. He basked in Tailgate’s attention.

 

“Ah! Ah! AAAHH! Cyclonus!!”

 

Cyclonus tried to swallow all of Tailgate’s release, but despite his best efforts, some dribbled from his cheeks. Tailgate saw as he drew out, digits trailing from Cyclonus’ helm to his jaw, scooping up the mess and pressing it back into Cyclonus’ intake.

 

“Good, that’s good, Cyclonus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEED ME WITH COMMENTS. :)


	9. Frottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was REALLY STUMPED for this bit...and I also took a nap after work so it's also very SHORT.  
> Meh, I'll live.

Tailgate heaved himself over Cyclonus, legs splitting wide to accommodate the other between them. His servos braced themselves over a purple chassis, and dimly felt the vibrations of the thrumming spark below, powerful and strong. His own swirled in his chest in rhythm with it. It had been so odd, waking after his bought of cybercrosis with a spark that had a completely different rhythm than when he’d passed out.

 

Cyclonus’ servos found Tailgate’s thighs, digits rubbing circles into the white plating, shiny and glistening with a fresh coat of wax. Tailgate shifted, until his panel hit satisfyingly against the other mech’s.

 

Tailgate caressed the large chassis beneath himself, the faint light of stars through the window lending him just enough light to watch Cyclonus’ faceplates as it shifted between the minutia of the taller’s shifting expressions, each a bare shade off from neutral. The servos on his hips encouraged the slight shifting motions, until they were softly rocking.

 

The swaying clink of their panels raised a charge slowly, Tailgate felt it crackle across their fields in tiny increments. Tailgate kept the pace slow, savoring every twitch of the frame below him, dedicating each tick and tightening of struts to his memory banks.

Cyclonus’ hips began to shift, then grind, and finally thrust against Tailgate’s crotch. Tailgate bounced with the force of Cyclonus’ hips.

 

Cyclonus’ faceplates were slowly crumpling. Tailgate bounced, and remembered the feeling of a foreign spark jumpstarting him from death, and waited patiently for Cyclonus to break.

 

Cyclonus began to shudder.

 

Tailgate’s engine revved, and he settled in for a long ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEED MY MUSES, PLEASE COMMENT!


	10. Fucking Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tailgate is having fun when Cyclonus walks in...

Cyclonus was frozen in the doorway to his and Tailgate’s shared hab, mandible dropped and optics locked onto the display on Tailgate’s berth. Splayed out on the meshes, curled over on his knees and servos, Tailgate was wailing and sputtering and moaning, tiny digits clutching the mesh and pulling. Something was whirring and chugging and slurping, hidden by one of Tailgate’s chunky thighs, though it’s identity was suggested by the rough bounce and sway of the little bot’s frame.

 

The chugging buzz went rhythmically muffled, and Cyclonus swallowed oral lubricants as his processor began to filter the whimpering vocals, the clenched, jerking frame, and the coppery sweet smell that had smacked him in olfactory upon entry into a gloriously clear image of what was happening in front of him.

 

The chugging sped up, the squish of a false-spike slopping through a well-lubricated valve keeping obscene pace. Tailgate’s little helm dropped, his whole chest sinking to the berth, showing off the stretch of his spinal strut as his aft is plowed into by some unseen spike, tiny noises escaping his vocalizer, short, almost punched out noises.

 

“AH! Ugh! Ugh!  _ Oh _ !!!”

 

Tailgates knees shift apart, he jerks to the new angle, and his vocalizer fizzles out, “ _ FRA--kkkshhhcks! _ ” His little legs kick against the berth, the clang of them echoing out. Cyclonus’ back processes arrived at the conclusion that the door was still open and it was probable that somebody outside was getting an optic or ear-full of Tailgate’s show. Without input from his main cortex, Cyclonus stepped into the hab, his pad clattering to the floor from numb claw-tips.

 

Tailgate didn’t so much as twitch his helm, still squirming on the false-spike and spitting static.

 

The false-spike began to rotate as Cyclonus tottered forward, the last few paces taken on his knees, all strength sapped out of his limbs. The spin was unforgiving, and Tailgate overloaded in very short order. It began as a shiver, low in Tailgate’s struts, and shook up his whole frame until the little bot was vibrating under the force of his own charge. It choked Cyclonus with the cloying smell of ozone, heavy on his glossa.  Cyclonus’ vents were cycling rapidly, blasting jet-hot air into the room behind him. The little bot’s shivering slowed to a stop, the brutal machine still pounding into the squelching valve.

 

Cyclonus waited for Tailgate to signal the machine to stop its movement, just as he was beginning to think Tailgate had been knocked entirely offline, little hips moved, and the false spike inside slopped out with what could only be described as a slurp. It rose over Tailgate’s aft, still thrusting wildly, flinging lubricants in all manner of direction.

 

Tailgate sighed, visor flickering online slowly, rebooting once upon seeing Cyclonus kneeled beside him.

 

“CYLONUS??!?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed the muse, please! Comments always appreciated!


	11. Orgasm Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyclonus and Tailgate are fragging, Cyclonus gave himself a job.
> 
> I like this one, but it's not my favorite, either. HAPPY READING!

Cyclonus took in Tailgate’s crumpled expression, visor dim, vocalizer shot, shaking and on the verge of utter collapse. His mask and visor couldn’t emote even as well as Cyclonus’ own face, the little bot having to rely more on the non-facial cues of body language, vocal sub-tones, and EM field manipulation to get his full point across. Currently, half of those things were scrambled as Cyclonus forced another overload from his partner.

 

Tailgate’s warped vocalizer spate static for a moment until it cleared only barely enough to be deciphered between gliphs, “--you...You haven’t yet...you haven’t…”

 

Cyclonus nodded, his own vocals stressed, “I know.” He hadn’t let himself overload. Anytime he’d gotten close, felt the tightening of his release systems, felt the pleasure crawling over his struts, he’d stilled and waited for it to pass. Instead, he’d focused entirely on Tailgate’s pleasures. Over, and over, and over again.

 

Tailgate had steam seeping from most of his vents, and a few seams besides, Cyclonus carefully signaled their habitat controls another few degrees cooler.  The sight of Tailgate, all burnished blues and glowing whites, venting steam and babbling through static sent thrills of sparks through Cyclonus. His spark spun up, his engines revved, and he stilled again, spike almost completely unsheathed from the familiar, loving warmth of Tailgate’s valve.

 

He let the charge pass, it took some number of clicks. Every time he sought to continue, he’d take another look at Tailgate’s flickering visor and the sparking over his chest, just over the other’s spark, and have to swallow a moan and pause again. When he’d finally wrested control of himself, he began the slow process of pressing back in.

 

Tailgate squealed, and  _ not _ in pleasure, “ _ **--kkssshhzztt**No more!!**sshhhkkk*--* _ ”

 

Cyclonus froze.

 

Tailgate’s servos grasped at Cyclonus’ shoulders weakly. “-- _ I can’t,” _ The harmonics shuddered.

 

Cyclonus vented hard --If Tailgate was satisfied, Cyclonus’ work was done. His body’s denied pleasures rose up as one, inexorable force. Gritting his denta, Cyclonus reigned in, “May I overload inside you?” he asked --vocals almost shot with charge, the question came out with a pop and a fizzle of sparks. Tailgate’s EM bubbled surprise, and sorrow.

 

“I don’t want you to come any deeper,” Tailgate said, “I’m sorry.”

 

And how he  _ meant  _ it, it drove Cyclonus mad with want. Tailgate  _ was  _ sorry that Cyclonus might not have his completion, because Cyclonus was  _ important _ to him. The minibot  _ wanted  _ Cyclonus, old and stern and unsociable. It was as infuriating as it was  _ beautiful _ . Cyclonus hardly deserved such a beauty in his functioning, but by primus he was going to hold onto it with both of his servos.

 

_ “I will not need to _ ,” Cyclonus assured. “ _ May I, Tailgate, please?” _

 

One little servo pat onto Cyclonus’ stiff mandible. “Yes, Cyclonus.”

 

Cyclonus heard the echo of his own overload ring in his audials, his HUD glorious and burning bright like the beginning of universes. Pulsing as he imagined Tailgate’s spark to pulse. For a split moment that stretched into epochs, reality roared, and everything screamed in pleasure.

 

Coming back to himself, Cyclonus realised he was the one screaming, every strut frozen in full lock-up, his spike twitching heavily, pulsing just inside of Tailgate and pumping the minibot full of transfluid, several denied releases of it. Tailgate was crying out, not in overload, but not in pain, and that was enough for Cyclonus at the moment.

 

Cyclonus ended up being cuddled Tailgate, after his overload had finished. He’d moved them over to Tailgate’s berth, beautifully clean and preemptively turned-down. Cyclonus had fallen in with the slightest of tugs from the other bot, and had dug into the smaller’s neck almost without thought, processor still half offline from the sheer force of his release. Tailgate didn’t seem to begrudge the closeness --typical Tailgate-- and indeed only encouraged long purple limbs to surround him and cling. Tailgates soft shushing and low-spoken sweet nothings drifted through his processor, and Cyclonus found himself feeling oddly warm, floaty, and content. His lazy processor took almost a full cycle to bring him back the conclusion that he felt  _ safe. _

 

Something about that seemed odd, but Cyclonus could contemplate it later, and snuggled in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feed hungry authors with comments!


	12. Tentacles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tailgate and Cyclonus get attacked by a tentacle monster.  
> Cyclonus gets a clue.  
> Not much else to say about this one.

Cyclonus writhed on the twisting supine appendage currently ravishing his valve, pouring organic lubricants into him and thrashing against every screaming node. He yanked at the fleshy bindings around his wrists and pedes, shocks of pleasure stealing his strength in waves.

 

The purple mech grunted as more of the gelatinous creature rose from the murky depths of the lake he and Tailgate had been exploring the edge of. More long --ugh--  _ tentacles _ , reached for his resistant limbs. Cold flesh captured Cyclonus at the joints, hindering the little movement he had and winding around his helm, joining the other lodged in his jaw. Finding little room there, it slipped up, squeezing him helm and fondling his horns, shading his optics and slathering him with rank, stale water. The tentacle inside of him pulsed, and spewed more sticky fluid into his chambers. Cyclonus groaned.

 

“Ayeee!!!” Tailgate squealed his way through another overload somewhere to Cyclonus’ side, and the mech twisted his head, attempting to get a look from between the limbs around his helm.

 

Warmth and charge zinged up his struts shamefully, at the sight of Tailgate completely lifted from the moss and muck, detritus almost artistically smeared across his white plating. It was obscenely scuffed over his little one’s thighs where great ropes of muscle pulled him wide. A third tentacle was stuffing the little blue valve, it’s rows of tiny bio-lights twinkling and sparking in fits. Cyclonus could only suppose the rapid blinking was due to the massive size of the appendage burrowing into Tailgate’s innards, as large in girth almost as the smaller bot’s fist. Lubricants were dripping down the blue frame, held aloft upside down and --

 

Cyclonus’ processes were brought crashing back into his frame as more of the creatures limbs wiggled into previously ignored seams, including several blasting vents. Cyclonus snapped his vents shut, clipping off wriggling bits of flesh to worm around under his plating. His temperature gauge flashed warnings in his HUD, that Cyclonus viciously cut off. The tentacle inside of him spurt more of its viscous sap, straining Cyclonus’ overflow chamber, his plating felt tight as an organic-species drum. Cyclonus bit down on the tentacle gagging his intake. It didn’t do much beyond make him feel better as the creature dragged him down to the soft earth.

 

Situated on servos and knees the weight of all the fluid inside of him intensified, rolling over his nodes; the charge he’d so successfully ignored roared to the forefront of his processor, and the sparking over his plating took on new life, plucking at the micro-sensors across his frame. The creature had oriented him to face Tailgate, now being plowed into on the ground, placed on his back with his legs pulled up almost to his chin. He was making unholy racket with his pleasured crying out.

 

His short spike, bright white and thick, drooled prefluid steadily, and Cyclonus could  _ feel  _ oral lubricants slide down his cheeks, he coughed and swallowed, and as Tailgate yelped, Cyclonus’s own invader was  _ twisted  _ pleasantly. With crossing, blurry vision, and Cyclonus’ higher functions fading as the waves of pressure and heat and charge swarmed through him, the tall bot began to notice a pattern.

 

When Tailgate cried out, too full to bear and still bereft of completion, Cyclonus was also groaning into his gag. When Tailgate was moved by enterprising limbs, Cyclonus moved with him.

 

When the tentacle inside Tailgate pushed forward like it had every intention of greeting the little bot’s glossa through his body, Cyclonus was stuffed to bursting with his own ‘servicing servo’.

 

Cyclonus was moved again, kicked over from kneeling to flat on his back by one rough push of a fleshy limb. Too overwhelmed to fight back, Cyclonus allowed himself to rest. Tingling started up in his pedes as they were pushed up and back, and the purple bot groaned loud as a flood of sticky fluid squirt out around the appendage still fragging his soaking, soft valve. The silicon was so slick and slippery as to hardly resist the thrusts being forced onto it, Cyclonus calipers couldn’t so much as flutter in tandem, they’d glitched out cycles ago and every reboot was interrupted by another surge of charge.

 

Onlining his optics, Cyclonus found Tailgate being hovered above himself, shivering and moaning. Cyclonus’ designation dropped from the smaller bot’s vocalizer like the most beautiful of crystals. For a moment, Cyclonus allowed himself a fantasy.

 

Tailgate between his spread legs, himself on his back, and a small, thick spike piercing him until he could hardly speak, utterly owned by the minibot he so adored. The thrusts into their bodies timed perfectly, and Cyclonus’ own optics fed him the image of Tailgate jerking over him from shared pleasures. Cyclonus could  _ just _ convince himself that the thing inside of him was Tailgate --deeper than Tailgate could ever get, yes, but just as ridiculously thick-- and that every moan from the other’s vocalizer, every twitch, every squeak and scrape, was from how much pleasure the other bot could wrangle from the sloppy mess at the apex of Cyclonus’ thighs.

 

Cyclonus’s circuits burned out after a few more overloads picturing it with the most graphic of live soundtracks, and when he woke in the Lost Light’s medical bay under the peeved watch of First Aid, Cyclonus learned one more thing that would probably be featuring in his solitary time in the washracks…

 

...Tailgate’s stamina had outlasted Cyclonus’ by far. He’d still been awake when help had arrived, and while somewhat mindless and definitely a mess by any standards, he had managed to relate a somewhat cohesive story. Cyclonus shuddered with the possibility of having Tailgate above him, taking him apart inch by inch, screw by screw, circuit by circuit.

 

He would have to discuss it with his little one soon...very soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed me with comments, please! I'm also mostly asleep, so if you see any glaring errors, please point them out!


	13. Medical/Rimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tailgate wants to try something new!  
> It's more 'fingering' than 'rimming' due to Tailgate not having a mouth, but I figure it still works, right? Right.

Cyclonus sat upon the berth, struts straight and stiff and sneering at the little bot excitedly jittering in front of him. He reminded himself sternly that Tailgate was very excited to try this  _ ridiculous  _ thing, and that Cyclonus was going to  _ support him _ in his endeavors towards happiness, even if that meant  _ faking it _ . Lying to Tailgate was--well, it didn’t sit well with the big bot, but Cyclonus saw little consequence to a falsehood of this nature that would never be shared outside their habsuite.

 

Tailgate did another spin to show off the temporary paint, low-quality pigment that would only last until a mild scrubbing. Tailgate had added several red accents to himself in small details across his frame, but more noticeable were the way he’d altered the tone of his bio-lights, and the large red crosses he’d painted onto his shoulder guards. “Don’t I look like a trainee medic?!” he squealed, visor brightening, still its customary blue.

 

Cyclonus nodded, far more interested in the bright red color he’d painted his hands, and the lovely striping on his waist and across his legs that accentuated their curves and angles. Tailgate didn’t have the same figure as frames such as Rodimus or Drift, he was more built in the shoulder and less in his hips, but the red painted across him led the optics right where intended: towards his interface equipment. It was leeringly subtle, almost like it was a mistake, the sort of alluring question a bot could never ask for rudeness had it been natural, but invited a fantasy of the wearer in all sorts of compromising poses.

 

Tailgate was wiggling, completely smitten, hips dancing and Cyclonus felt the first stirrings of actual interest in the proceedings.

 

“Please lie back on the berth!” Tailgate chirped. “Your medical exam will begin now!  _ Heehee _ !”

 

Little red servos flickered about, moving Cyclonus’ limbs and feeling for their complete range of motion. At least this part wasn’t as farsal as the same situation in interfacing vids shared covertly among soldiers, Tailgate had more than enough strength packed in his tiny chassis to obliterate a bot Cyclonus’ size. Cyclonus didn’t need to help at--

 

“ _ Kztt _ !”

 

Tailgate froze, Cyclonus’ arm held aloft his helm, EM field screaming terrified, blitzing worry.

 

“I am fine,” Cyclonus rumbled, engine coughing up a purr, “There is just a kink in the wires of that shoulder, they pinch at times.”

 

Admitting to such a thing was defeating, but it was more important that Tailgate not think he was in any way at fault. The other would take his apologies too far, Cyclonus was certain.

 

Tailgate lowered Cyclonus’ arm carefully, EM field drawing in tight to his frame. Cyclonus startled to have the familiar sensation taken away.

 

“Tailgate? I said it was fine, you may continue.”

 

Tailgate’s visor was pointed to the floor, Cyclonus’ arm now held gently against his chest, where the thrum of the other’s spark could just be felt. Carefully, Cyclonus’ limb was put back onto the berth, and Tailgate’s servos came to a rest over his. The little digits stroked soothingly.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The EM field filtered back, it’s edge of joy softened and a new determination sparking in its place. Tailgate heaved himself up, intent on climbing onto the berth with Cyclonus. The laying mech helped only once, supporting Tailgate’s aft as the smaller attempted not to put too much of his weight on him. “Oooh! Sir!” Tailgate said, playful as he’d been in the beginning, “such inappropriate placement for your servo!”

 

Cyclonus’ spark melted in its casing, “My apologies...doctor?”

 

The little bot giggled helplessly, swinging a leg over Cyclonus’ hips, “Flatterer! I’m nurse Tailgate! It’s  _ swell _ to meet you!”

 

From his new perch, Tailgate leaned down over Cyclonus, “I’m so sorry about your pinched wire, I didn’t know.” His vocalizer was tinged with remorse, but Tailgate’s next were not. Instead, they made a promise of  _ very  _ nice feelings, indeed.  “Let’s make it  _ all better _ , okay?”

 

Cyclonus shivered to the dark seduction laid bare in his little one’s tones, and let himself relax, as Tailgate picked up his manipulations from his new seat astride Cyclonus’ frame.

 

He started at the same shoulder Cyclonus had winced at before, moving the limb much more carefully, and using a cleaning pick to manipulate the dermal wires that were causing the larger mech discomfort. He’d never used picks in such a way before and the sensation was a little jarring, but not unpleasant. After some time, it even...felt nice. Tailgate treated each limb with the same care, removing crimps and debris with a steadfast focus. With each tiny release of tension, Cyclonus relaxed into Tailgate’s hold a little more.

 

When his fans clicked on, Cyclonus had to re-online his optics, which he didn’t quite remember shutting off. It was much warmer now than when Tailgate had asked him to play this particular interfacing game, partially due to Tailgate’s exertion to crawl all over Cyclonus’ chassis and manipulate the large body laid out for him. Mainly, however, it was that Tailgate was finished with sorting through Cyclonus’ dermal wires, and had moved on to EM field massage, and Tailgate’s field was...Tailgate in general was…

 

... _ extremely revved up. _

 

Tailgate’s vents glistened, condensation making a fine mist over his plating and dripping tantalizingly down his form...following his painted red stripes enticingly. The minibot’s EM field was plucking and caressing his own, passing on it’s aroused static. Tailgate moved over Cyclonus, his panel rubbing and pressing against Cyclonus’, until Cyclonus’ field began to press and play back.

 

“ _ Ah _ ! Cyclonus, I’m supposed to be making  _ you _ feel good, remember?”

 

Tailgate’s vocals were laced with interference, and Cyclonus’ spark sped up, feeding his arousal into his field. “Carry on, then.”

 

Tailgate giggled, and wiggled down, nuzzling Cyclonus’ plating on the way.

 

“Hey, Cy? Can I try something?”

 

“I assume you wish for permission to try an  _ alternative _ treatment,  _ nurse _ ?”

 

“Ah! Yes! Yes, do I have your permission, sir?”

 

“Go ahead.”

 

Tailgate pushed Cyclonus’ legs apart and settled between them, then took one leg in each hand and pushed them up towards the bigger bot’s chest.

 

“Open your aft plate, please!”

 

Cyclonus jerked, “My what?”

 

“Your aft plate, please sir.”

 

Cyclonus, haltingly, did as asked, reaching around his own hips to pluck at the nearly seamless latches keeping his aft plate in place, exposing his waste port. It was a useless feature once cybertronians had civilized enough to refine energon, the few additives most used still could be digested quite easily and were utilized in a variety of ways by their frames. Cyclonus’ hadn’t been touched for more than a good cleaning since it had stopped being necessary.

 

“Thank you, sir!”

 

But Cyclonus, anti-social and judgemental as he was, still heard about what other mech got up to in their berths, including a few adventurous and lecherous enough experiment with...that.

 

“Tailgate?” Cyclonus asked, servos taking hold of his thighs to keep them from trembling.

 

“Yes?” Tailgate had coated one digit in artificial lubricant, and it rested right on the rim of his waste port, chilly against the warm sensors there.

 

“Please...please be gentle...I’ve never...not  _ there _ .” He’d heard tale of a few mechs in hospitals for their experimentation, too.

 

Tailgate’s whole body jerked up to attention, peering at Cyclonus’ faceplates over his knees. “Really?! Don’t worry! I know what I’m doing!” He waggled his red digits to the bot below him. “Back where I come from, this was pretty common when one of us felt...uh... _ sick _ !”

 

Cyclonus’ optics widened at the information --Tailgate had played with wasteports before, back when he’d had little more purpose than a cleaning drone. “I see, proceed.” He didn’t see how much appeal playing with the port could be, but...Cyclonus would try it for Tailgate. He settled back, dubiously assured of Tailgate’s proficiency, and prepared himself for uncomfortable awkwardness.

 

The first few touches were better than he’d feared, Tailgate kept one servo on his thighs, caressing them, and his field playfully bantered with Cyclonus’. His other servo, however, circled one digit around the port in distracting circles as the lubrication heated up from Cyclonus’ frame. From there, Tailgate began to swirl and trace his digit across the proto-metal in patterns and shapes. His faceplate nuzzled just to one side, and Cyclonus looked to the ceiling.

 

There was an odd feeling of pressure when the digit pushed in, the port cycling open under gentle ministrations. It was almost like the feeling of being fragged, but at the same time it was distinct. His valve began to lubricate under the confusing sensations. Tailgate giggled. “Do you want to try two, now?”

 

Two? How? This one digit filled the whole port!

 

Tailgate’s middle digit massaged the port opening, and Cyclonus felt it slowly stretch. “What?!  _ Oh _ !” He fell back against the berth, hips twitching.

 

The stretch was...he felt...sparks were sending signals up his struts and his whole pelvic array was going wild with charge. White-noise cleared from his audials and Cyclonus heard Tailgate’s pleased voice say, “We will force a defrag by stimulation of the waste port! It doesn’t have many sensors of its own, so it piggy-backs signals off many nearby array. With enough stimulation, the whole system becomes confused, and we reboot!”

 

Cyclonus...found it very difficult to care with charge rising rapidly over his circuits, fans spinning up and the heat of the moment well and truly rising.

 

The stretch was mesmerizing, and just about the only clear signal he had. It was piercing in its intensity, sensors that were ignored, hidden under plating and left alone outside a cursory washing were being touched and moved and abused. The two digits thrust in and out, slowly, but presently  _ there  _ in a way Cyclonus was  _ not  _ prepared for.

 

They circled, and played, and thrust impudently, and Cyclonus cried out loudly with a moan. Both servos shot up to cover his intake.

 

Tailgate glanced up, “ _Cyclonus?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO!!!!
> 
> BE!!!!!
> 
> CONTINUED!!!!!!
> 
> Sorry, but this one really played well into tomorrow's prompt..."Role Reversal".  
> Who else is excited?!?!


	14. Role Reversal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of chapter 13--medical kink/rimming
> 
> Tailgate continues to play nurse.

Tailgate glanced up, “ _ Cyclonus _ ?”

 

Cyclonus peered down at the bot settled comfortably between his legs, visor and EM bright with arousal, but vocals touched with concern.

 

“I- am fine.”

 

Tailgate’s digits slipped out of his frame, leaving Cyclonus bereft with only the ghosts of sensations shivering through him, “You don’t  _ sound _ fine.” Tailgate pat Cyclonus’ other panels, giving them a firm rub. It felt nice, even with the stickiness of artificial lubrication.

 

Both panels locked firmly while Cyclonus’ faceplates went heat-warm with embarrassment. “It...it is intense, Tailgate. But I would enjoy it if you continued.”

 

The smaller bot placed one digit back on Cyclonus’ waste port, optics trained directly to the other bot’s face, and, ever so slowly, pushed it back in. The feedback noise from his sensors creeped back in, and Cyclonus tipped his helm back to moan, horns scraping on the berth. Before he could silence himself, Tailgate pressed in his second digit and Cyclonus hugged his own legs trying to stifle his cry. It bared him obscenely to Tailgate, and Cyclonus wanted to apologize, but Tailgate’s beautiful little face, bright and happy and  _ fascinated _ stopped him.

 

Or maybe that was the third digit, pushing its way in with a bit more force. Confused mania from his circuits screamed nonsense to his processor, flashing lights across his HUD and making his spark sputter and jump. Tailgate’s EM was the only buffer he had, it was excited, but smooth, Tailgate in complete control of the situation while Cyclonus lost in on his meshes.

 

The stretch was just to one side of unbearable, and confused sensors and nodes had his valve pouring lubricants, his spike in fits inside its casings, and his lower back flashing ‘total loss’ in huge glyphs all at once.

 

Tailgate did not ease his assault one iota when Cyclonus had his first not-overload. It was the same sort of overwhelming, charge built up and dumping over his circuits and flashing signals all across his frame, but afterwards...it just...didn’t ease. Cyclonus was left without release, returning to the burning cusp of overload to await another. Tailgate giggled, vents pouring down chilly air.

 

Cyclonus’ temperature gauge informed him that it wasn’t chilly, he was just that overheated.

 

Tailgate straightened to a crouch, and, digits still pumping away, leaned over to rub his facemask over Cyclonus’ lip-plates. It was awkward for a kiss without lips, but probably more so given that Cyclonus couldn’t dedicate any processing power to the task, and it was more biting and panting that any sort of action with finesse. Cyclonus’ processes offered up the idea of using his glossa instead of denta just before Tailgate pulled away.

 

Cyclonus made a noise of denial that Tailgate shushed. “It’s okay, Cyclonus, I have you. Can you give me another?” As if to taunt him, the digits inside of Cyclonus’ aft began to wiggle and thrust and twist and Cyclonus lost it again, in another wave of overload-that-wasn’t, and Cyclonus arched into a full-body spasm as his processor melted from the inside out. Vision white, audials roaring, and all sense of touch limited to confused shrieking from...from his aft.

 

And then he crashed right back onto a knife-edge.

 

Bleary optics looked to Tailgate. The minibot was showing some strain. Both servos were moving, one burying digits into Cyclonus with an lecherous squish, the other out of Cyclonus’ vision, he was venting harshly, steam puffing from his little engine, and his visor was intensely bright.

 

“Please,” Cyclonus whispered. “ _ Please _ !”

 

“Hmmm? Shhh, Cyclonus, I need to concentrate!”

 

“ _ Please _ !!”

 

“Please what?”

 

Tailgate’s tone indicated impatience, and Cyclonus felt it intimately, himself.

 

“Put...put it in!”

 

A little engine revved hard. “I’m not going for any more than three, Cyclonus! It stretches, but not  _ that  _ much!”

 

Cyclonus groaned a scream, throwing his head back and kicking his legs against the trappings of his own clawed servos in a full on tantrum, “Your  _ spike _ ! Give me your  _ spike _ !”

 

“Wh--in your  _ aft? _ ”

 

“YES! Yes, Primus damn it! Give it to me!”

 

Cyclonus needed  _ something  _ to offset the endless looping mania of his sensors, he needed  _ more _ . 

 

“Are you certain, because your valve--”

 

“ _ AAAGGGHHH _ !!!” Cyclonus was flung by persistent digits into another unsatisfactory overload, frame twitching and processor on the brink of crashing. When his audials cleared, he hissed in his most threatening tones, “ _ Do it.”  _  He sounded more desperate than threatening.

 

The digits were removed and one red servo was placed over his own, sticky with lubricants.

 

“If you’re sure…”

 

“ _ Yeesss--ah! AH! _ ”

 

Tailgate’s spike was thicker than his digits, but only just. Enough to tantalize, but pain was far from Cyclonus’ thoughts. The spike didn’t move as the digits had, no twisting, no wiggling. It was a  _ massive _ solid mass that entered him like a master coming home from battle, utter ownership in a thrust. Tailgate hadn’t even begun to thrust yet, and Cyclonus was sure he would go mad when it did. Sensors were screaming, mechanical hysteria was at the back of Cyclonus’ processors, back programs of guilt and resentment were being knocked out of millenia-long loops, and all of it felt like it was just to make room for the spike making a home in Cyclonus’ guts.

 

And Tailgate began to move.

 

Cyclonus lost it. Every push home was a miniature nova of an overload, there was no vision, and sound came in fits and spurts that Cyclonus only barely recognized as his own impassioned wailing over the clanging of their hips. The sensations of his body felt localized to the smacking against his aft and the weight of Tailgate’s spike destroying him. It was endless, absolute headonism, and Cyclonus could have died happily right there in the berth, except that such would have meant that the whole of it would  _ stop. _

 

Tailgate shifted, and his spike’s angle changed, driving down as Tailgate settled over top of him, weighing down his legs to his chest and pressing in for another kiss. Sparks exploded in the black of Cyclonus’ vision, as a few sensors lit up that seemed impossible.

 

From the change in angle, Tailgate’s little spike was  _ hammering _ Cyclonus’ millenia-untouched ceiling node through the proto-flesh of his aft. Cyclonus’ calipers redoubled their efforts to milk a spike that wasn’t present, and between the two and the already blinding freefall his processors were in--

 

Cyclonus overloaded harder than ever before in his functioning, and dropped into reset.

  
  


When he came to, he came frame-first. It ached, most of his sensors nearly numb with overstimulation, a few out entirely and Cyclonus suspected melted entirely. He was still curled up knees to chassis, Tailgate weighing him down as the most comfortable blanket Cyclonus could imagine. Next came vision, and Cyclonus blinked red-opics until he could see Tailgate, in sweet-faced recharge over his own spark, digits clutching at Cyclonus’ kibble. There were scorch marks all across their frames, the berth, and the wall, and Cyclonus was cautious about asking why. And then, full-processing came back.

 

Gloriously clear, with zero-lag, and each system running as precisely efficient as the day he’d been forged. All of his sub-routine loops of guilt and trauma had been kicked back to make room for pleasure. All of the unanswerable questions of what-if and should-have were cleared for more charge.

 

Cyclonus felt  _ GREAT. _

  
He looked to the tiny bot on top of him, carefully cradling him into a nest of Cyclonus’ own body, “Good job,  _ Doctor. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For being a bit shorter, I actually really like this one?!  
> who agrees with me?


	15. Object Insertion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh...so...I'm gonna leave this here.  
> No spikes feature at all in this one. Probably very inspired by chpts 13/14.

Cyclonus took his time opening Tailgate up on his claws. He always did --it wouldn’t do to have Tailgate put through the discomfort of rough scraping on his soft inner walls. Tailgate was doing what he usually did through these soft ministrations.

 

“Cyclonus!!! I can take it!! Go faster!!! Please? I’m  _ ready!!!”  _

 

It was always the same diatribe, Tailgate whining and pleading and urging while Cyclonus took the time to make sure that his larger frame and equipment wouldn’t hurt his little lover. Most of the time, Cyclonus found himself rushing because impatient little minibots were apparently his weakness --but  _ not this night-cycle! _ Cyclonus had a plan, and he was  _ sticking to it. _ First step were his digits. Second step…

 

Cyclonus leaned down.

 

“Nooo!!! Cyclonus!! Not your glossa, I want your-- _ Oooh _ !”

 

Cyclonus kept toying around with one claw, and keeping the smaller bot’s anterior node occupied with his lips and denta. He laved over the little bud harshly with his glossa, and felt Tailgate grasp onto his horns. He steered Cyclonus into a rough rhythm, fragging himself on Cyclonus faceplates with urgency. Cyclonus took it in stride, and used a surge of lubrication to slip another claw into Tailgate unnoticed.

 

“ _ Ahhh _ ! Ah! Cylclonus! Cy- _ clo _ -nus!”

 

Cyclonus let himself drift in the pleasure of Tailgate’s field for just a moment, Tailgate’s cries like music across his audials, better than any Golden Age opera. He stiffened his glossa let Tailgate use it and his digits to bring himself pleasure.

 

“Right there! Like that! I’m so close! I’m gonna--!! HEY!”

 

Cyclonus sat up, digits going still. Tailgate could have very well kept him face down in his array, but Cyclonus trusted the bot not to hold him if he wanted to be free. Cyclonus looked down at his treasure, the towering giant of goodness he had managed to steal the spark of. Tailgate was shivering with unreleased charge and glaring cutely at Cyclonus from the depths of Cyclonus’ meshes. Perfection.

 

“I have some things for you,” he said, engine rumbling low.

 

“I  _ love  _ presents, Cy, but is  _ now  _ really the best time?”

 

Cyclonus pulled the gift from his subspace, and held it up for Tailgate’s inspection. “ _ Now, _ my dearest, is the  _ perfect _ time.”

 

Tailgate, staring at the large valve-orbs bright visored and steaming audibly reset his vocalizer and said, “Yup. Excellent timing….are those...are those going to  _ fit? _ ”

 

Cyclonus shrugged, “Perhaps not all in your  _ valve _ ,” he said, “but I have ideas for where  _ else _ you can put them.”

 

“ _ Awesome _ ,” Tailgate whispered.

 

There were six orbs in total. Soft silicone, brightly colored, easy to sterilize and each a little bigger around than Tailgate’s own spike. When lubrication was rubbed into their surface, they began to glow softly. Cyclonus eased Tailgate back, and turned him to his side, bending one knee up to expose his pretty valve and its tiny rows of biolights.

 

The first orb was rubbed all along Tailgate’s pelvic panels, soaking in oral and valve lubricants until it glowed nicely. The large, blunt sphere was then pressed against Tailgate’s opening until is squeezed in with a pop. Tailgate grunted, and the orb peeked out, pressed downward by gripping calipers.

 

“Oh, oh wowee,” Tailgate said, “That’s a new feeling.”

 

“I had hoped so, the second, now.”

 

The second did the same slow dance as the first, gliding up and down Tailgate’s valve and circling his anterior node until it shined, then slowly sinking in. “ _ Aaahhh--Cyclonus _ , it feels...It’s really full.”

 

Cyclonus nodded, humming through the purr of his engines and dipped a single claw in to test the fit inside of Tailgate. He would fit one more in his little valve. Probably. Cyclonus placed one servo over Tailgate’s abdomen and felt for the orbs with his palm. They weren’t hard to locate, swelling with lubricants and becoming stiffer and less gelatinous.

 

Cyclonus needed to hurry.

 

He swirled the orb over Tailgate’s opening, and then pushed it inside to squeeze in with its brothers. Tailgate spat static with his moan. The valve couldn’t quite seal over the end of the orb, so Cyclonus held it place while it absorbed enough lubricants to swell and lock itself into place. Tailgate shivered on his side, moaning and writhing.

 

The next orb, Cyclonus carefully soaked in his own lubricants before leaning down to Tailgate’s audial.

 

“Remove your aft plate,  _ please. _ ”

 

Tailgate blasted heat from his vents, and turned over onto his planer side, slowly putting his knees under himself to raise his aft in the air. His servos reached back and unclipped a plate, leaving Tailgate’s waste port on display.

 

Cyclonus lovingly leaned down to kiss it, a soft peck that intensified with glossa and denta until the proto-flesh was warm and pliant, and the bot below was quaking. The thick orb was pressed to the opening, then harder, before it popped in.

 

“Ahhh! Cyclonus!!” Tailgate clutched the meshes, hips bouncing in the air, EM field sparking in aroused distress.

 

“Shhhh, I have you, little one.”

 

The fifth orb followed the fourth into Tailgate’s aft, the sixth not much longer after that, and the minibot was left stuffed with every orb slowly growing inside of him, pressing on every node and sensor cluster as they molded to his exact shape. The swell of them was obvious through his thinner torso plating, and Cyclonus thumbed the bulge reverently. He carefully guided Tailgate back onto his side, and pulled one short leg up to get a better view of his handiwork.

 

Neither port could quite contain their load, leaving both sets of orbs to peek out like the universe’s most lecherous game of peek-a-boo, and Cyclonus leered to see it. “How does it feel, Tailgate?”

 

“A--- _ agghh _ \---am--amazing, Cy...feels-- _ amazing _ !”

 

“Good, good, are you almost ready to overload?”

 

“Uh-huh!”

 

“Good, good.”

 

Cyclonus hiked the pede in his hand higher, and kneeled over Tailgate’s other leg, until his own valve, open and leaking, was level and pressed firmly against Tailgate’s. An experimental thrust assured him that he could stimulate his own anterior node against Tailgate’s, or against the bulge of the orb still peeking out of the stuffed valve.

 

Tailgate wailed static and flung a servo down to grab at Cyclonus’ hip.

 

“Again!”

 

“As you wish,” Cyclonus replied, beginning to thrust. It was absurdly wonderful, clutching Tailgate’s leg and humping their valves together in soft squishing thrusts. The side of his anterior node against Tailgate’s was inspired, a dance of shocks and sparks that went right to his struts and processing core. Tailgate was incoherent, visor offline and he clutched and moaned. His EM field assured Cyclonus that it was all quite well-received. 

 

The orbs were very well swollen indeed when the remarkable happened.

 

Tailgate screamed through an overload, and one orb popped straight out of him--and into Cyclonus’ dripping equipment. It was sudden, and shocking, and  _ far too thick  _ for such sudden entry, but despite, it was...wonderful. Cyclonus’ valve sucked it right in, and the weight of it was heavy on his nodes, stretching his calipers deliciously.

 

Tailgate was panting, visor dim and giving optics to Cyclonus’ surprised face.

 

“Well?” the miibot said, “Are you gonna give it back?”

 

Cyclonus shuddered, smashed his valve against Tailgate’s, and bore down. Tailgate’s valve accepted it reluctantly, and then passed it back with a squirt of trapped lubricant.

 

The orb passed back and forth through the kiss of their valves perhaps four more times before overload ripped through Cyclonus, now with two of the spheres in his channel. His desperate thrusting took Tailgate over his own edge, and they came down as one sticky pile, Cyclonus right over Tailgate.

 

“Cyclonus?”

 

“Ha--yes, Tailgate?”

 

“Those were a great present and all...but I think I’m gonna need help getting the ones in my aft out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEED THE MUSE. COMMENTS, plz!!


	16. Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure the prompt meant a different sort of mask, but this is what I have to work with, here...
> 
> SUPER SHORT!

Cyclonus slammed his helm back against the berth, optics offline and EM field going wild with sparks and charge. His whole frame bowed up off the berth, and his legs were kicked wide across Tailgate’s shoulders. Between his legs, Tailgate kneeled down, intake orifice open.

 

He had no lips, no denta, just the intake valve and an aperture, tucked in at the bottom of his face mask, perfect for his silly straws.

 

But to get energon from those straws, Tailgate used his intake to  _ suck _ .

 

Cyclonus didn’t realize how powerful that suction was when he’d asked Tailgate to try it on his anterior node, though.

 

Cyclonus screamed through his overload, squirting fluid all over Tailgate’s chin. Tailgate giggled delightedly, then bent down again.

  
“After all the times you’ve done this for me, Cy, I owe you a few hundred of these, yeah? ...That was  _ one. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEED THE BEAST WITH COMMENTS!


	17. Massage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Shorty! I tried to make this one a bit longer, but I'm literally asleep on my feet.

Tailgate moaned as he guided Cyclonus’ spike into his valve. It was slippery with leaked lubricants, and too thick to  _ quite _ close his servo around, but with Cyclonus laid back against his berth, arms tossed lazily over his helm to frame shining chrome horns.

 

“Mmmhhhh! Ah, Cyclonus!” Tailgate shifted and rocked as he was split open, working himself down the shaft in tiny bouncing thrusts.  He settled as far down onto the spike as he dared, the massive head pressing against his ceiling node, and what felt like every sensor and node inside him, calipers twitching with the new programming Tailgate had asked Ratchet to install after a long series of glitching stutters. The medic had paused, hacked a laugh for three straight cycles, installed the oily program, and sent the minibot on his way.

 

Cyclonus hummed, EM fluttering, “Are you alright, Tailgate?”

 

Tailgate moaned, hunched over Cyclonus’ form. The first cycle was always overwhelming, too big and too much, and perfect for it. Tailgate rolled his hips around, feeling the spike stir his insides and pulling a tiny moan from Cyclonus’ vocalizer. The blue mini moaned back, leaning back to show off the bulge in his abdomen, and sneaking one servo down to wrap around the length of Cyclonus’ spike that didn’t fit. He gave it a few pumps and loving squeeze.

 

“Ready?” Tailgate asked.

 

Cyclonus moaned, “yeess!”

 

Tailgate’s calipers squeezed around Cyclonus’ spike, dancing through a series of pulsating rhythms until settling on one that Tailgate felt massaging every snug inch of the length inside him.

 

Cyclonus moaned, and Tailgate smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed the muse with comments,please!


	18. Masturbation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tailgate has a request and Cyclonus isn't quite sure...

Tailgate’s field was sharp with bashful embarrassment, sparking in a static kiss across Cyclonus’ own.  His little pede was alternating between scrubbing a scuff off the floor absently, and itching the back of his opposite leg. If only he would stop blubbering around whatever he wanted to ask, Cyclonus would be happy. Which wasn’t to say that Cyclonus couldn’t spend everyday watching Tailgate and never get tired of it, it was just that watching Tailgate be flustered and unsure was actually  _ painful _ . The little bot was so earnest in his hopes that Cyclonus would keep him (of course--forever) that he agonized over every thought he had a chance to second-guess.

 

From the amount of squirming, flushing, and number of vented sighs he’d emitted from the start of this conversation, Tailgate had been brewing over this question for a while.

 

“C-Cy?”

 

_ Finally _ . 

 

“Yes?”

 

“You can say no--that’s totally fine, and honestly it doesn’t really matter if you don’t want to we have lots else we can do, but I was hoping that we could, well, really that  _ you  _ could ---if you would, please--”

 

“Tailgate. There is very little I can imagine that you may ask me that I would refuse you--but there is no cause to guess about my answer if you cannot actually  _ ask _ . Please, my love --what can I do for you?”

 

Tailgate’s field pulsed with love and arousal, and no small amount of dissonant trepedation. “I want to watch you self-service.”

 

Cyclonus nodded, “Alright. This night-cycle?”

 

“Wh-- _ yes? _ Oh, ah--Yes!”

 

“Good. I will see you after shift, then.” Cyclonus nodded, then peeled out of the hab at a quick walk, already late for his shift.

  
  


Until his return walk to the hab, Cyclonus hadn’t given Tailgate’s request much thought. As his pedes carried him through the long corridors of the  _ Lost Light _ , however, Cyclonus came to the strange realization that he was... _ nervous _ . His steps were off-cadence, and his field felt like it was trying to peel the paint off his plating. His servos kept clenching, first one, then the other. It was ridiculous. Cyclonus had self-serviced before, it wasn’t anything he didn’t know how to do.

 

Cyclonus veered into the mess to snag a cube to settle his tanks, finding a quiet corner to drink it in. The mess was fairly calm most cycles, because all the hooligans took their flare and raucous party-making to  _ Swerve’s _ . Cyclonus cupped the energon between his servos and brooded.

 

Sure, he’d self-serviced before, what bot didn’t? But, Cyclonus did admit, it had been some time since he’d done so. In his long functioning, he’d hardly been left wanting of partners to sate his desires, and now his earliest fumblings under the meshes to manipulate his young frame into the mysterious highs of overload were all distant memories. Mostly his experiences of masturbation consisted of a few strokes before sinking into the valve of another bot, or after pulling out of one, to release upon their derma plates.

 

Would it be  _ weird? _

 

What if Tailgate wasn’t into it?

 

What if Tailgate  _ was  _ but  _ Cyclonus  _ wasn’t?

 

Cyclonus’ tank roiled, and, to prepare himself, he began a thought exercise.

 

Cyclonus straightened his spinal strut until his shoulders were directly over his hips, then relaxed his shoulders, feeling the weight of his armor stretch the flexor cables of his neck and arms. Offlining his optics, he set up an elaborate scenario.

 

He entered their hab, and Tailgate was waiting--on the berth? No. Tailgate would hardly be so composed. Tailgate greeted him happily upon entry, already jittery with nervous excitement. He pulled Cyclonus to the berth, pushing him to sit against the hab wall and arranging him to Tailgate’s liking.

 

Settled against the wall with his legs stretched out and spread apart for Tailgate’s enraptured viewing, Cyclonus began the process of delicately plucking is own wires and seams to raise his charge. There were the familiar gaps at his neck and between his shoulder plates and under-arms that never failed to spark some interest from his sensornet. Then he trailed his claws over his armor lightly --it hardly felt like anything, but the slight ringing pulled and teased for Tailgate’s attention-- and found more sensitive seaming across his hips and knees, before delving into the larger gaps at his hips, near his pelvic array.

 

Tailgate was encouraging Cyclonus to keep going, and the larger bot obliged.

 

Cyclonus slid back his spike panel with a particularly vicious pinch to a wire in one gap, and let it pressurize for Tailgate’s viewing, shifting minutely to let the light from their desk lamp play over the derma plates and biolights, showing off the girth and length for his lover. Taking the spike in hand was easy, and the play of his servo on the proto-flesh was shockingly easy to sink into. Tailgate kept encouraging more --harder, then slower, to focus on the head or to stop touching entirely.

 

Tailgate had crawled right up the splay himself on the berth between Cyclonus’ legs, demanding and pushy and  _ perfect _ .

 

“--clonus? Cyclonus?!”

 

“Hmm?!” Cyclonus’ optics rebooted and he stood, sending his cube to the floor with a crash. First Aid stood next to his table, caught frozen between helping and thinking better of it.

 

“Cyclonus? You were overheating --Do you need to go to the Medical Bay?”

 

Cyclonus’ processes flashed, “No. Thank you, First Aid. I shall be fine.”

 

The tall purple bot threw his empty cube in the recycler and set off towards his hab at a quick pace. It wouldn’t do to keep Tailgate --or his own aching, needy spike-- waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy this one?  
> FEED THE MUSE! COMMENT, please!


	19. Prostitution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 19: Prostitution.
> 
> ...okay, not porny in the slightest, in fact, mostly just sad.

Cyclonus stormed into the training rooms on the  _ Lost Light,  _ red eyes blazing and every strut in his frame clenched tight. The room was empty, and there were no witnesses to his shameful display of emotions. His field burned outwards, throwing off shards of hatred and guilt and shame. The training dummy in front of him fared no better, the padded metal screeching and screaming with every too-hard hit and every furious slash of claw.

 

He’d been so  _ calm! _

 

He’d  _ laughed  _ with them!

 

Cyclonus’ processes lost him for a moment, and he tackled the whole dummy contraption, bringing it down with a squeal of taxed metal and a guttural scream. Cyclonus rolled around the floor with it, clawing and rending, sending metalli-mush stuffing fluttering like ashes from a fire. He rolled over the dummy to sit astride it, taking it in both servos and slamming it against the floor, each resounding crash a harsh resonance of the turmoil in his circuits.

 

Tailgate had  _ drank  _ with them!

 

Had  _ smiled,  _ and  _ joked _ !

 

Cyclonus smashed the dummy down one more time, then raised his clenched fists overhelm and bashed and bashed and bashed, the pain firing up his wiring so,  _ so _ welcome. He deserved every burned-out nerve this would give him--by the  _ pit _ , he deserved  _ worse _ . The unconscious brutality of his bygone Golden Age, the frivolity and gilded sparkling veneer of it roiled.

 

Every proof he’d never needed of his own era’s blase cruelty was probably still drinking in that bar--drunkenly proclaiming he could -- _ would _ \-- handle all takers, up to and  _ including  _ Fortress Maximus! His masters had commanded no less from his tiny frame. Demanded no less than his absolute indignity and slavery, no less than the complete agency of his frame as their own---

 

\--their own---

 

\-- _ FRAGGING PUPPET!!!!! _

 

Cyclonus howled, the sound echoing off the walls and cascading around him like a creature forged of burning wrath. Below him, the dummy was nothing more than misshapen pieces, and even rung wouldn’t have had the patience to put it together again.

 

... _ Waste Disposal bot, _ huh?  _ What a joke….what a fragging joke... _

 

Cyclonus curled over the mess of his making, his torn derma, and dug his chipped claws into his face and wailed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to say it now: I have an insistent plot-bunny that nibbles on my brain folds telling me to write former!prostitute Tailgate, who, by virtue of having coming online into a normalized but horribly abusive environment has no idea how traumatized he is. Where the first time he realizes that his old night-cycle shifts were anything but normal, and is where the others on board realize just what being "disposable" could mean for you.
> 
> Sorry for the downer.  
> Comments feed hungry muses.


	20. Threesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day late, but I'm working on it!
> 
> TailgatexCyclonusxWhirl!! There are hints of un-negotiated Dom/Sub dynamics, but trust me, anyone in this set who is truly uncomfortable rather than just sort of put-out would have stormed away from the situation.
> 
> This is an immediate prequel to chapter 21!

Tailgate crawled over the berth, into the lap of a reclining Whirl. “Hi,” the little bot said coyly, curling two white servos over the large chest piece that made up the helicopter's cockpit. Whirl’s optic shuttered, and two pincers roamed over Tailgate’s aft and thighs, clicking excitedly.

 

“Hey yourself,” the  _ Lost Lights _ ’ resident lunatic leered.

 

Cyclonus felt his inner systems snarl, and the only bot he had to blame was himself -- he had been the one to tell Tailgate that they could try this kink. Tailgate had asked him at just the right time, cuddled up to Cyclonus’ side, engines pinging as they cooled post-overload. It had been sensual love-making that night-cycle, Cyclonus bringing Tailgate off with precise attention and control as many times as his fingers and lips could before fisting his own spike over his lover’s chassis until he spent all over the blue frame. Tailgate had displayed himself in sensuous stretches as he rubbed the transfluid over his plating like expensive waxes.

 

He reigned in the angered flare of his EM field, and set to watch Whirl feel up the bot in is lap. 

 

Cyclonus had assumed the question would have brought a more acceptable bot into their berth. Rewind, for example. Skids, maybe.  _ Rodimus _ would have made some sense. Frag,  _ SWERVE _ , the vocally incontinent glitch, would have been acceptable!

 

Whirl was nuzzling Tailgate’s helm, and Cyclonus felt the sparking satisfaction that the empurata had no lips with which to kiss the other. That, at least, would remain sacrosanct. The same could not be said for Tailgate’s soft valve lips.

 

Cyclonus vented heavily, hearing the squish as one thick pincer claw slid along the energon-plush silicone, smearing shiny lubricants that the purple bot wanted to lick off his little mate. “Oooh, you’re  _ ready _ ! Is big, tall, and purple not treatin’ you good? Need a  _ real bot  _ to-- _ hurk! _ ”

 

Tailgate, writhing over Whirl’s claw, squeezed the spike in his servo viciously, and the large blue ‘copter whimpered. “Be  _ nice _ , Whirl.”

 

Cyclonus shuddered down his struts, and folded forward. He slid Whirl’s claw off the nub of Tailgate’s anterior node, and sucked it into his intake, laving it with glossa and burying his nasal ridge into the soft folds of the smaller’s valve, smearing it in the cloying sweet scent of candied energon jellies that Tailgate adored. Tailgate squealed into Whirl’s cockpit, little ankles kicking. Cyclonus made himself comfortable there for the next cycle, sucking lubricants down his intake like fine high-grade, holding Tailgate’s hip-joints steady to give himself the leverage to get Tailgate’s vocals into his most desperate registers. 

 

He stole a glance over Tailgate’s aft into Whirl’s optic.

 

Desperation, heady longing, the thinnest thread of hope all shivered there in the glittering yellow lens. Tiny flashes of purple and orange as static arced from one circuit to another in their depths. What Whirl’s field held silent, his optic betrayed. Whirl was looking at Tailgate.  _ His  _ Tailgate.  _ Cyclonus’ Tailgate!!! _

 

The rumbling growl of Cyclonus’ engine revved the small bot straight into an overload that exploded all over Cyclonus’ faceplates in a sticky, pink mess. Whirl made a funny noise that Cyclonus refused to quantify. The purple bot licked Tailgate through the aftershocks, and rose up, prepared to throw the interloper out on his aft now that the deed was done.

 

“Ready for the main event?” Tailgate sighed, dragging his body up to look the dumbstruck Whirl right in his pseudo-faceplate.

 

“Uh,” Whirl said, smartly.

 

Tailgate’s field whirled in satisfaction, pleased and warm, “Good.”

 

His servo guided Whirls’ spike, long and as whip-thin as the bot himself, to his valve and sank onto it in one solid push, moaning through a chuckle. “Yeah, that’s the good stuff,” he whispered. Cyclonus heard the choking sound of his own vocalizer, but all his attention was drawn to the spread of Tailgate’s hole over the other’s spike, and the soft squish of Tailgate’s valve lips against Whirl’s abdominal plating.

 

It was something Cyclonus could never feel. His spike not quite compatible with Tailgate’s model and frame. Tailgate physically could not mod a bigger valve, and Cyclonus was religiously bound against modifications that weren’t medically necessary. It was not a problem --they found their situation perfectly thrilling…

...or...it  _ hadn’t  _ been a problem, until Cyclonus saw smug, psychotic  _ Whirl _ moan through the feel of it.

 

“Oooh, baby-bot, that-- _ that’s _ \--wonderful!”

 

Cyclonus growled low, and Tailgate twisted to face him, fully seated on another’s spike and wriggling to feel it  _ more _ . “Cy, shush!”

 

The purple bot growled again, and loomed over Tailgate’s back, servos settling on the blue and white bot’s hips to still him, glaring down at the bot reclined at the bottom of their pile. He snarled, showing fang, and Whirl, typically, laughed uproariously in his faceplates.

 

“Oooh,  _ jealous?!  _ Can’t get it  _ up  _ or can’t  _ fit it in? _ !” He cackled.  Cyclonus in-vented, ready to throw Tailgate off and over his shoulder, so he could  _ throttle  _ the ‘copter underneath him when a tiny servo took hold of one horn and  _ shook him  _ like a doll.

 

Recalibrating his equilibrium took a click, during which his audials heard the flash of heavy metal-on-metal slaps. “I said  _ BE NICE! _ Cy! Quit it! You said you’d try!”

 

“Not with  _ him, _ I didn’t,” the tall bot grumbled. Quietly.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Nothing, love.”

 

“He said not with--Ow! Ow! Okay, I’m sorry! I’ll be good!”

 

Cyclonus’ vision re-asserted itself, and Whirl was cringing as lubricant squeezed out of Tailgate’s valve to drip all over Whirl’s lap. Cyclonus could hear the metal of Whirl’s spike strain under a grinding pressure. Tailgate kept up for another moment, then his hips relaxed and Whirl drooped. “Good.”

 

He took up the hypnotic undulation of his hips once more, drawing grunts and sighs from the wrecker as Cyclonus gazed on petulant.

 

“Cy,” Tailgate said, “surely you need to be closer to see better.”

 

Cyclonus frowned, but leaned in obediently.

 

“Closer, really get in here!” Tailgate began to raise up and down the shaft, a slow and playful bounce.

 

“I don’t want him--” Whirl was shushed with a digit over his faceplates, though he had no lips or even a real face to shush against.

 

“You said you play if I got him to agree--so  _ play _ .”

 

Tailgate removed the digit, and hooked it into Cyclonus’ cheek, pulling him down optic-level with the spike penetrating his valve, every sound and smell and visual super-sized in his HUD like an close-up ‘facing vid shot. Tailgate’s field flared with arousal, mirrored by a fresh spurt of lubricants down Whirl’s spike, and Cyclonus, well trained, answered the flare with his own, softer, and less sure.

 

“C’mon, Cy, do you need a written invitation?  _ Eat me out! _ ”

 

“ _ He is--!! _ ...as you wish, Tailgate.”

 

Cyclonus did his best to bob with Tailgate’s hips, to keep his lips and glossa off of Whirl, but the task was impossible. Tailgate’s impossible sweetness was marred by the bitter tang of Whirl’s arousal and slick, and Cyclonus was always half of a beat behind Tailgate’s smooth slide up and down. He tried anyway, until he realized with every thrust that Tailgate’s goal  _ wasn’t  _ to have Cyclonus’ intake on his stuffed valve, it was to get it onto  _ Whirl. _

 

Cyclonus sputtered against Whirl’s proto-flesh, and Whirl--

 

Whirl  _ whimpered. _

 

Tailgate giggled. “Do you understand, Cy?”

 

Cyclonus nodded, but continued to follow Tailgate’s valve, doing his best to lick the folds being pierced and rubbed by Whirl’s shaft, working his glossa in beside it in tiny strokes of luck that were dashed as quickly as they were realized.

 

“Cy, you’re a stubborn mech, you know that?”

 

Cyclonus did, but if it got Tailgate as static-vocaled as all  _ that,  _ the larger bot would take it as a compliment. Then Tailgate’s servo shoved his helm down, and pulled his intake against the base of Whirl’s spike.

 

“ _ Suck _ .”

 

A single word of command that shot through his body like lightening off vector-sigma itself, and Cyclonus was helpless to obey. Whirl didn’t seem to fair much better, his stifled whines were now fully vocalized, and the ‘copter was moaning, groaning, and whimpering to the ceiling, pincers clenched tightly over his helm, clinging to one another as if to hold themselves in place.

 

Cyclonus helm was shoved farther down and another command was said, “Open up, Whirl.”

 

Metal snapped aside, and Whirl’s valve was bared to Cyclonus’ intake, and summarily the two were shoved into a mockery of a kiss. “ _ Suck _ , Cyclonus!”

 

Cyclonus dove into his work like a bot  _ possessed _ , his master’s servo firm on the back of his helm, and a symphony of hysterical pleas floating above him. The valve he feasted on was bitter, not sweet, and the taste of ozone and battle had Cyclonus’ hips frantically fighting the berth for  _ any  _ kind of friction he could use to get himself off. He hauled the valve in front of him harder against his faceplates and speared it with his glossa, attacking the swollen anterior node with denta and nasal ridge.

 

Whirl shook apart with a scream and overloaded on Cyclonus’ faceplates, adding to the mess already present. The ‘copter went limp, spindle-legs and delicate pedes flopping out, exhausted. Cyclonus shivered as he moved back, unsure of his continued welcome, and looked to Tailgate, still revved up atop his recovering, temporary partner.

 

There was another soft click of metal, and Cyclonus’ optics flashed down to the panel being set aside by blocky white servos.

 

Tailgate leaned down to display his still-stuffed valve and the tiny orifice that was his waste port.

 

“Well? Don’t you know what to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHA, I did not get to write at ALL on the 20th, so this is getting posted now. Chapter 21 is an immediate sequel to this one.
> 
> I hear there is some interest in making chapter 19 a longer fic? I'm currently working on a different monster for another fandom, and that's my writing on main, but I would be more inclined to begin work on this plot-bunny if I had someone willing to be a beta for me. My usual beta does not care for TF, and I would not be able to use her. Any takers?
> 
> Comments feed huntry muses!


	21. Double Penetration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct sequel to chapter 20.  
> BARELY ON TIME, BUT I DID IT!!!! (HA!)
> 
> So...this is...sort of...physically dubious? Do not try at home? IDEK.

Cyclonus gawked, there was-- _ no. _ His processors stalled, optics staring in disbelief at the vision before him. Whirl, weak by rallying as a surprisingly stiff spike stirred the lubricants and transfluids dripping out of Tailgate’s puffy valve. Bared before him was the minibot’s waste port, offered for a taste and for Tailgate’s ravenous pleasure.

 

“Your glossa first,” Tailgate said, little engine purring.

 

Cyclonus, engine revving back up after the stall, slowly leaned in to kiss the little opening. Tailgate moaned, and static charge shivered through the frame. Underneath, Whirl choked. Cyclonus swirled and circled the way he knew melted Tailgate’s struts, and kissed the port like it was Tailgate’s intake, though the little bot hadn’t let him kiss him there just yet, still unsure.

 

Pushing his glossa in, there was a strange, unfamiliar tightness, and Cyclonus massaged the walls, finding sensors hidden behind proto-flesh walls that would send haywire heaven ringing over Tailgate’s processor. Whirl sobbed. The tightness seemed to originate from Tailgate’s planar side--

 

\--it was Whirl’s spike, still pulsing inside Tailgate’s valve, oozing fluids. Cyclonus dipped to lick some of the drip with his glossa, earning a soft moan from each above him, and pushed it into the port for extra lubrication.

 

His servos rested on Tailgate’s hip array, to settle the kiss more firmly into his port, exploring Whirl’s spike through delicate mesh. One servo was pulled away, a single digit isolated from the rest, and pushed down, the claw delicately scratching at Tailgate’s most intimate of hardware.

 

“Inside, get it wet,” the little bot said, pulling Whirl’s optic back around to watch the digit slide into Tailgate next to his own spike. The pressure was intense, and Whirl’s optic dimmed with strain and his carefully guarded field fluttered with want and aroused anxiety.

 

“Shhh,” Tailgate crooned, “This will feel  _ sooo  _ good, I promise.”

 

Cyclonus was slow to sink his digit in, and slow to draw it out, a slow fragging that set every one of his sensors on  _ fire.  _ Each and every one sent confused information to his processor, but his mind was set firmly on the image before him. His Tailgate, in the throes of passion, chirping and pinging pleasure, tiny “Ah!”s pushed out of him with every press forward of Cyclonus’ long digit. Whirl next to him was wonderful counterpoint, optic cycled shut as if to try denying the pleasure that Tailgate revelled in, each moan shut off with a squeal of quiet feedback.

 

“Switch digits,” Tailgate moaned, and Cyclonus did, almost without thought.

 

The slow fragging continued, and Cyclonus’ opposite servo trailed its way down, and sunk three digits into Whirl’s valve in one syncopated thrust.

 

“AHHH!” Whirl’s legs jerked up, pulling wide, as his optic flashed and the ‘copter overloaded once more into Tailgate. Cyclonus’ engines stuttered, feeling the twitching of the other’s spike against his glossa through Tailgate’s mesh in time to the shivering pulses over his digits. He leaned back to swallow lubricant, and saw the drip of thick, viscous fluid as it seeped out around the spike-stuffed valve, dripping over Cyclonus’ own servos.

 

Cyclonus groaned heavily into the heated air, and blast super-heated air out his vents. He drew his digits out, scooping up all the lost fluids and pushing back in, into Tailgate’s waste port so it would ooze out again, the picture perfect of a fragged-out hole.

 

“Spike,” Tailgate whispered, “Now. Now now  _ now _ .”

 

Cyclonus didn’t hesitate or question, his processor focused only on doing as Tailgate asked, for Tailgate’s pleasure, because it was  _ Tailgate  _ and Tailgate was  _ perfect _ and  _ deserved everything  _ he could _ possibly  _ desire _. _

 

Cyclonus crawled up and over the pair, red optics laser-focused on guiding his thick and heavy spike, drooling copiously onto the meshes, to Tailgate’s waste port.

 

He pushed in.

 

His HUD blew out to static, and his audials rang, the tightness in his field exploded into a hysterical high. The feel of Tailgate around him, as ever, was bliss. Cyclonus slammed both servos on the wall over their helms, equalizers swimming through junk information and hardly keeping him upright. His hips stuttered, then began to move without his permission, drawing back, then heaving forward until there was a  _ clang _ .

 

Tailgate wailed, echoed by Whirl’s own swear.

 

Cyclonus drew back, leaving the heat and the squeeze, and the wonderful fluttering--then  _ slammed  _ back in with another ringing  _ clang. _

 

“AAAHHH! Cyclonus! Yes!!”

 

“ _ Ffffff--rrr-AAAAHH” _

 

Cyclonus lost his mind wonderfully. It was the white-out shiver of his own aft-port being stuffed with toys at Tailgate’s discretion, and the helpless, swooping feeling of Tailgate giving him a  _ look _ when Cyclonus was being particularly stubborn, with a dash of something else that Cyclonus  _ knew  _ but was too static-bright to piece together.

 

He ground in as  _ deep  _ as he’d never been before, his release as core-deep as to almost be unfelt except in unbridled  _ relief  _ as each strut turned to soft liquid-mercury. His optics rolled down, Tailgate was shivering through his own overload high, visor flickering fetchingly, and Whirl had ripped the meshes thrashing through his own.

 

Cyclonus dropped into recharge still sunk in as deep as he could go into Tailgate’s aft, feeling the transfluid soaking around his spike and dripping out.

 

“I... _ knew... _ you two could…. _ get along _ ,” Tailgate huffed from underneath him.

 

Neither bot heard him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed the muse with comments, please. They are the fuel authors need for inspiration!


	22. Glory Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS is the scene I saw in my head when I was considering doing this challenge.
> 
> The prompt is "Glory Hole" and Cyclonus has HOLES in his FACE. WHAT DID YOU EXPECT ME TO DO?!!

Cyclonus relaxed his back against the berth, optics shuttered, every strut limp save the faint grip of his claws on Tailgate’s skidplate. He was oddly numb to the discomfort of his frame, his neck fibres twisted a tad too far and abused past their recommended specs for strain. Tailgate’s frenetic movement repeatedly bumping Cyclonus’ helm against the berth he was kneeling next to was hardly a ringing in his audials. Cyclonus’ whole attention was on the feel of Tailgate’s servos on his helm, keeping him from bashing his helm too badly, and controlling the motion of Cyclonus helm, keeping the tall bot right where he was wanted, where Tailgate could reach him with his hips.

 

A line of oral lubricants drooled out of the open hole of Cyclonus’ cheek, right around the spike Tailgate was thrusting through Cyclonus’ most conspicuous facial features. Cyclonus revelled in the weight of it on his glossa, the sweet taste of his partner, and the heaviness of Tailgate’s pedes on his thighs to bring his spike level with Cyclonus’ helm.

 

“Ah! Cyclonus!”

 

Transfluids splattered the berth behind his helm, the inside of Cyclonus’ intake, his glossa, and then the side of his face, and Cyclonus moaned at the warm splash under his optic.

 

“Oh, Cy...you’re beautiful like this…”

 

It was said so soft and awed, Cyclonus’ spark swelled.

 

Tailgate’s thumb wiped at the mess, and Cyclonus tipped his helm to give him better access.

 

Said that way--Cyclonus believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feed the muse with comments...


	23. Against a Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not my best work this time. Short.  
> Cyclonus clangs Tailgate against a wall.

“AH! AH!  _ Cyclonus _ !!” Tailgate scrambled slick digit-tips over the wall, trying to find purchase as he was pressed against it.

 

His whole frame was jolting and shivering, sensors swimming in confused mania, unsure of the signal’s origin and cycling back to try and ascertain it. Cyclonus was braced behind him, holding his hips steady and arched over the smaller bot’s back until his helm steadied him against the wall.

 

Their frames clanged together in an amorous cacophony.

 

“ _ Cy _ !!!!” Tailgate shrieked, vocals slipping to static and HUD completely offline. Above him the tiny sounds of Cyclonus’ deep pleasures, wrenched from his vocalizers, huffed down over Tailgate’s face like benedictions 

 

Each long press of Cyclonus into Tailgate’s aft was a shock of wonder, each shock was delivered with frantic pace and unerring aim towards the buried node at the back of Tailgate’s channel. The constant barrage was maddening, and Tailgate with his last conscious thoughts before the surges took him completely, took note that such a madness would be lovely indeed.

 

Cyclonus roared and surged behind him, and Tailgate was lost. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed muses!


	24. Fisting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not my favorite chapter, which is sad because as far as fics go, it's one of my favorite kinks. Damn.
> 
> Tailgate tops again.

Tailgate crouched, delicately balanced on his knees and one servo, humming his engine in the pleasant heat of the hab, and leaned in close to the lovely view spread open for his optics. Reclined on the berth and holding his own pedes spread by his knees, Cyclonus was jittering and glitching through his second overload. Tailgate’s intake orifice buzzed a moment, and then was shut away with a snap of metal.

 

Cyclonus’ pedes twitched at the sound.

 

“Ready?” Tailgate asked, sliding his fingers around the inside of Cyclonus’ valve. Cyclonus whined, cutting off his vocals viciously partway through the noise. Tailgate giggled helplessly, and leaned in to nuzzle Cyclonus’ servo, wrapped under his thigh.

 

“Tailgate--we talked about this….”

 

“I know, Cy, you want me to take charge,but I still need to make sure you’re okay!”

 

The large purple mech groaned and whined, huffing through his vents and blasting annoyance, cut with a fair amount of fondness, through his field. “Just hurry  _ \--please _ , Tailgate!”

 

Tailgate giggled again, a bubbling through his vocalizer like carbonation in an energon fizz. “Oh? Are you  _ sure  _ you want me to hurry, Cy?”

 

“ _ Tail _ \--!!!!!  _ AH _ !”

 

Tailgate pushed his fourth digit in with the three already present in Cyclonus’ soft, soaking valve. It was a tight fit, but the picture of Cyclonus losing the ability to process was unspeakably beautiful. Tailgate took a moment just to watch him shiver and spark, the waves of his field lashing out with every tick of the cycle. Carefully, the little blue mech rubbed his thumb over the slippery, well stretched opening of Cyclonus’ valve. Tucking it under his fingers, he watched as the whole of his servo began to sink in.

 

Cyclonus’ vocalizer spat static, then fritzed and left a small trail of smoke to rise out of his gaping intake. Tailgate, far from worried, brushed out a soothing wave of his field, and pairing it with a twist of his servo to stimulate the nodes his spike never reached.

 

At the crest of his knuckles, Tailgate felt a small bit of resistance, the silicone derma and the calipers behind stretched to their designed limits.

 

But all limits can be exceeded a little, and that was all Tailgate needed.

 

A liberal application of artificial lubricant and a firm press slipped him past the thickest part of his hand, leaving him gloved in Cyclonus’ frame. Tailgate’s biolights flared brightly, and the smallerbot spoke, “Put your knees together, Cy.”

 

Shakily, the bigger bot did-- as far as he could, at any rate. The gentle chime of his knees shivering against one another rang as a song of triumph.

 

The tightness around his servo instantly intensified, and Tailgate slowly curled his servo into a fist. Rocking it back and forth caused Cyclonus to thrash. The heady rush was matched by the quick flood of lubricants trapped behind Tailgate’s fist as Cyclonus overloaded once more, blasting heat and bowed back gloriously.

 

Tailgate eased his servo out of his limp lover, and smugly watched the fluids flood out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed the muse with comments, please!


	25. Smiling and Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not smutty again.  
> But much happier than the last time I did that.  
> Beware.

_ My love has no intake to smile with, _

_ My love has no denta that sparkle, _

_ My love has no optics to glitter and glint, _

_ No brow to furrow in startle, _

 

_ My love has not the experience, _

_ Of others with his years, _

_ Lost to the world in innocence, _

_ And anxious, lonely tears, _

 

_ My love has no thought to ancient hates, _

_ And strides through the conflict untouched, _

_ My love has no brain for politics, _

_ And says what he feels he must, _

 

_ My love has not the grinding scars _

_ Of many from our youth, _

_ Holds yet still the gilded charms, _

_ Pressed by many more aloof, _

 

_ My love is pure in spark and mind, _

_ Stubborn to search out the good, _

_ My love in me somehow did find, _

_ A spark beating behind my brood, _

 

_ My love, steadfast, against the mass, _

_ Holds loyal, true, and kind, _

_ Forgiving, laughing spark of glass, _

_ Stay forever mine. _

 

The poem slot into Cyclonus’ frontal processes like it had been sitting there for a vorn, having apparently been tossed-around Cyclonus’ back-processes for some undefined amount of time. It had been hauled forward by the sheer shock of Tailgate’s field, the force of his joy and excitement blistering in its intensity against Cyclonus’. Tailgate was incandescent --his field flaring and shining with all the light his face couldn’t send through a smile that didn’t exist.

  
And Cyclonus, in the middle of  _ Swerve’s _ , fell in love all over again with a tiny, overcharged, minibot, who was laughing too loud, dancing obnoxiously, and sending every not-smile in Cyclonus’ direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed the muse with comments! It needs sustenance!


	26. Mirror Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was away from my computer for a bit, but I have three smutty presents for you for the wait!  
> In this one, Cyclonus gets nailed into their hab window.

Cyclonus clutched the window in his and Tailgate’s habsuite with claws that held no purchase against the transparent durasteel. His helm was pulled back, Tailgate’s grip firm on his horns to keep Cyclonus’ gaze on the faint reflection there as Tailgate spoke to him.

 

“Don’t you see it, Cy? You’re beautiful!” The minibot grunted between powerful thrusts. Cyclonus rocked as Tailgate’s spike plundered his valve, every motion smacking his anterior node and stretching his calipers with a squelch. Cyclonus’ red optics were fastened on the faint reflection of himself, intake hanging open and a desperate look upon his face. The larger bot squeaked at a particularly pleasant reaming.

 

“Ooh! That was so cute, Cyclonus! Let’s see if I can get another!” Tailgate shifted minutely, Cyclonus panting though his hanging intake until he found just the right angle to cause another squeak, which trailed into a deep moan. Tailgate’s field corona flared, and Cyclonus felt his calipers squeeze as tightly as they could.

Tailgate yanked back on Cyclonus’ horns, “Not yet!” he ordered.

 

Cyclonus whimpered, and shook his head, but held on. Tailgate wanted him to wait, so he would. Instead he focused on giving Tailgate as much pleasure as he could. The purple bot bowed his spinal strut, letting his anterior node be more fully slapped, and giving Tailgate a weight to thrust into. He steeled himself for the thrilling shame of it, and let himself moan loudly, so Tailgate could know of his pleasure. He unwrapped his field and threw wave after wave of lust at his companion, reading the responding love spark back.

 

He watched in the reflection of the window, fogged up from his vents, as Tailgate smiled through his overload. Jerking and spasming, and grinning. He stilled only for a moment, then leaned back over Cyclonus’ frame, hardly reaching the taller bots’ shoulder, but nuzzling it all the same.

 

“Mmmm...Cy….ready for round three?”

 

Cyclonus met Tailgate’s visor in the reflection of the window, the ghostly image of Tailgate streaked over in stars and twinkling lights, and sank onto his chest, pressing his aft up and spearing himself more deeply on Tailgate’s fat spike.

  
“ _ Please _ ,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = happy muses!


	27. Branding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt is branding, but I went with marking.
> 
> As in, Tailgate gets a hold of a marker and proceeds to draw on Cyclonus.

Tailgate had gotten a hold of markers, somewhere. Cyclonus wasn’t entirely sure whom had been foolish enough to give them to the happy, little bot, but it led him to his current situation, and--

 

\--the marker tip tickled across his abdomen and he had to focus on staying still.

 

“Ah-ah!” Tailgate chided with a giggle, “You need to stay still, Cyclonus. You don’t want me to mess up, do you?”

 

Cyclonus wasn’t entire sure he didn’t. If Tailgate messed up  _ whatever it was  _ he was doodling all over Cyclonus’ chassis, then the jet could call it all off and head to the washracks to find a solvent that would rid him of the ink.

 

The tall bot squinted at their habsuite ceiling, hoping that plain solvent would be enough, he really didn’t feel like completing a whole strip and re-wax detailing. 

 

“Good, Cy, you’re doing good. Just a bit more, okay?”

 

Fine. Cyclonus puffed an annoyed vent and let the little bot sitting astride him continue his infernal drawing.

 

“Aaaaaannnd, done!” Tailgate capped the marker and tossed it over one of his broad shoulder guards. “Mine,” he said, happily, with a giggle.

 

Cyclonus groaned, and looked at the surface of his abdomen, ready to see what silliness Tailgate was going to insist he be seen in public with at least once.

 

_ Tailgate’s Valve. No Touching! _ Was written in large glyphs right in the center of Cyclonus’ belly, with an helpful arrow pointing straight down towards his panels.

 

Embarrassment jumped through Cyclonus’ field, sharp and panicked. But it didn’t cover the smothering thrill of static, or Cyclonus’ punched out groan.

 

Tailgate giggled. “Open up, Cyclonus. I want to play with my valve.”

 

Cyclonus’ panel snapped aside, and the big bot spread his legs, “Of course, Tailgate.”

 

He almost asked if Tailgate would really make him walk around with the sign on his derma, but decided he didn’t really care. He would walk around with his panel open if Tailgate asked sweetly enough, probably. Cyclonus sighed as two of Tailgate’s digits sunk into his quickly lubricating valve, working up a rhythm to stoke at several nodes. If Tailgate asked sweetly enough, Cyclonus would probably do anything.

 

“Oh Cy-- _ thank you _ ,” Tailgate said.

  
_ Anything for you,  _ Cyclonus thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tailgate totally took him to Swerve's like that. Cyclonus got clanged in the corridor later.  
> Comments feed muses!


	28. Swallowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tailgate can't actually give Cyclonus a blow job, but he wants to taste anyway...

Tailgate worked Cyclonus’ spike with his servos, carefully lubricated and gripping tightly.

 

“C’mon, Cyclonus, overload for me?”

 

Cyclonus stared down at the minibot servicing him and placed one clawed servo delicately over the other’s helm. “You want this?” he asked.

 

“Of course! You’ve gotten to taste me so many times, Cy, and it always felt so wonderful! I’ve gotten to taste your valve, but never this...can’t I have this?”

 

“Mmmmh... _ yes _ , Tailgate. You may.” Cyclonus carefully bat away Tailgate’s servos, drawing the smaller helm forward, and rutting against it directly. The smooth facemask and visor weren’t particularly good to rub against, but the  _ vision _ of it, of Tailgate letting Cyclonus cover his tiny face with his spike, smearing pre-fluid and the scent of Cyclonus’ own wax across his armor,  _ that  _ was lovely.

 

He cradled the helm in his servos delicately, tilting it this way and that until he found the perfect crest to rub off on, sliding open his valve panel to catch his anterior node on the down-thrust. He groaned, and Tailgate’s little engine revved in reply, rattling straight through to Cyclonus’ tanks.

 

Cyclonus spent some cycles like that, rubbing against Tailgate, letting little digits spear up into his valve to get at sensitive sensor clusters and lubricants. He pulled back as his HUD warned him overload was imminent, and took over with his servo, fisting the sensitive dermal plating with one, and keeping Tailgate’s helm close with the other.

 

“Ah, Tailgate--talk to me, please.”

 

“To say what, Cy? To overload on my faceplates?” the little bot giggled, unaware of the absolute  _ heaven _ of what imagery that conjured for his partner. “What if I asked you to overload in my intake and let me taste you at last?”

 

Cyclonus’ engine hummed loud and fast, vents dumping heat. He guided his spike forward, pressing the fluid spout right up against Tailgate’s intake as the other squeaked. The first spurts of transfluid shot right into the small orifice, Cyclonus twitching, but staying as still as possible to keep his aim true. Tailgate swallowed quickly, trying to keep up with the flow, but was ultimately unsuccessful, leaving it to drip down his chin and onto the habsuite floor.

 

Tailgate didn’t notice, too busy attempting to categorize the flavors, catalogue the differences in taste between Cyclonus’ valve overloads and his spike overloads. It was impossible to do in one sitting, but he was willing to make the sacrifices required. The shots of fluid slowly stopped, so Tailgate began to massage Cyclonus’ valve walls, popping off of his spike and leaning down the small distance to put his intake over the other’s anterior node.

 

Cyclonus jerked, and moaned, and Tailgate echoed him.

 

How was he supposed to really know the differences without comparing in real time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments feed muses!


	29. Overstimulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm RUNNING ON FUMES!!!!  
> Short one.  
> Cyclonus feels lots.

Cyclonus pulled his legs open, moaning loudly and arching back, hoping to invite more pleasurable thrusts and touches to his overheated frame. Tailgate was settled heavily upon him, gripping around Cyclonus’ waist with his powerful servos, dragging the bigger bot into every thrust. Each thrust was partnered with a flare in Tailgate’s feild, spark-full of electric joy and the ozone scent of lust, prickling along Cyclonus’ plating and digging under into his struts. 

 

Tailgate’s groin drove against the false spike in Cyclonus’ sloppy valve, the smaller bot’s thick spike spearing his waste port. A dozen confused reports told him all sorts of fantastic lies about what parts of his anatomy were being stimulated, and each wild information packet drew him to new heights.

 

“Ah!  _ AH!  _ Tailgate!”

 

“Just a bit more, Cyclonus, just a bit more…”

 

Tailgate shuffled and crawled over him, a delicious drag of singing metal against metal and the minibot took hold of Cyclonus’ shoulder armor to pull him in. Their bodies clanged, a cacophonous sound that drowned out the shout of Cyclonus’ inner nodes being hit in a new and all together  _ fantastic  _ way. Cyclonus shrieked static, his valve spurting a fresh wave of lubricants that smeared across Tailgate’s abdomen and then dripped down his front.

  
Tailgate hissed through his vocalizer, “ _ Yeessss _ , that’s it….now...let’s flip you over. We can get a few more out of you, yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments feed the muse!


	30. Toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tailgate, Cy, and every single toy in their toy box get together to have a party.

Tailgate hummed, squeezing his legs around the magna-buzzer clamped to his anterior node. He giggled through the shock that zinged up his sensor net, and shivered. Tailgate reached for another magna-buzzer, set to the side on the berth in a swanky box, and plucked it from the linings. He waved it over Cyclonus’ olfactory.

 

“Now yours,” he sing-songed, and knocked against Cyclonus’ closed panel. The purple bot slid it aside without preamble. “Your valve is so  _ pretty  _ Cy! I just love how your ‘lights set off the color of your optics.” The minibot swirled a finger around Cyclonus’ anterior node, the proto-flesh flushing with energon. The purple mech leaned back to tilt his hips towards Tailgate’s attentions, and his helm dropped back as the magna-buzzer zapped and locked onto his metaloid derma. For a moment, all it did was rest, flush against his node and altogether  _ present _ and  _ heavy.  _ It revved to life a moment later, a bright note of sensation across his net.

 

“Ah,” he sighed.

 

Cyclonus reached out, and took hold of a vibrating false-spike, dormant, but impressive in girth and legth.

 

“Really, Cy? Going straight for the big-guns? No foreplay? Doesn’t seem your style,” Tailgate teased, leaning down and sucking the node into his intake, the voracious orifice ravaging the nub and causing Cyclonus to arch painfully though a stab of pleasure so fine it hurt.

 

“Perhaps, if I meant this to find home in your  _ valve _ . Your aft, however, prefers as little preparation as possible.”  He then pulled Tailgate up with one arm surrounding the little one’s shoulders, and putting his aft in easy reach of the servo holding the toy. A flick of a claw, and Tailgate’s aft panel was removed, clattering away to the floor, and lubricants dripped from a hole used very recently for such pleasures.

 

The spike-head pressed against it to stem the flow, then inside, with a squelch. Tailgate vented hard, wailing. His little pedes kicked and fluttered until he found purchase enough along Cyclonus’ plating that he could wiggle and shift a bit more as he liked, to tease himself.

 

“ _ You! _ ” Tailgate said thickly, without malice, “--you like my aft the most ever since you found out you could put it all in.”

 

“I hardly like it the  _ most, _ ” Cyclonus retorted, vocals only hinting at the static pleasures his own array was signaling to him, “though I do admit, it’s become of my favorites.”

 

Tailgate giggled and wiggled away. Reaching for another toy, “That’s fair, I like your aft, too. Do you think I can fit this  _ whole set _ of ovoid-buzzers in there?”

 

Cyclonus’ engine  _ roared _ .

 

“I agree,” chirped Tailgate, mischief and lust jumping off his field in waves, “we can find out together.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I had time to expand this one more, but I'm REALLY BUSY tonight, so this is all you get.  
> If you're wondering, it's basically a festival of "how many toys can we use on each other before we overload," possibly followed up with sixty-nining to such each other off and get mess all over their faces.  
> Comments feed the muse! She needs them to liiiii~~ve!


	31. Author's Choice- Piercings!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end!
> 
> Tailgate gets some mods checked up on!
> 
> Bonus Ratchet!

Tailgate led Cyclonus into Medbay by the servo, giddy and jittery and babbling a mile a click. “I’m glad the tingeling’s stopped! I know Ratchet said it was normal, but I really was worried for a bit there that it wasn’t going to stop!” he kept up the diatribe all the way over to the medberth, and raised his arms up for Cyclonus to help him up. Cyclonus did so with infinite gentility.

 

“Anyway, I hope he says my nanites have healed me up enough for...well,  _ you know! _ ”

 

Cyclonus grunted, but one of his servos rested carefully on the smaller bot’s shoulder, a single digit rubbing back and forth across a wheel well, his field stroking softly against and through Tailgate’s. Ratchet stepped in with a datapad in servo, and his usual low-grade scowl furrowing his faceplate. “Good, you’re on time.”

 

“Yep!”

 

“Of course.”

 

Tailgate wiggled and kicked his pedes as Ratchet walked over, setting aside his pad and motioning with a finger for Tailgate to lean back. Tailgate took up the now familiar pose, leaned back on his elbows, and legs moving as far apart as they would go to fit two full-sized mech between them. His panel snapped aside with an hydraulic hiss, baring his valve, anterior node, and unpressurized spike to their view.

 

Ratchet pat one pale knee joint and looked to Cyclonus. The purple mech granted the barest of nods, and Ratchet sank his longest digit hilt-deep in the little mech.

 

“ _ Ah!  _ Ratchet! Your digits are cold!”

 

“Hush, you. It’s not like this is an exercise in getting off!”

 

Tailgate groaned, and slapped the doctor’s wrist once, “Yes, Ratchet, it  _ is _ ! To see if I’m healed up!”

 

Cyclonus chuckled gamely, and pet beautifully curved thighs. Ratchet’s optics rolled skyward.

 

“Hold still, then!”

 

Tailgate huffed, and thrust his hips in retaliation to the order. Ratchet reached out with his free servo and pinched Tailgate’s anterior node, newly pierced.

 

“ _ AHHH _ !”

 

The minibot jerked as the demoid-anchor of the piercing was rolled and squeezed with each movement. The delicate wires and sensors wonderfully tantalized, but the sensation over so quickly, that Tailgate’s cry of joy cut out into a solid indignant note.

 

“Hey!”

 

“I said hush, you. The sooner I can check your responsiveness, the sooner you and Cyclonus can head back to your hab and try out these mods.” As he said it, his digit swirled wonderfully against several modified nodes buried in his valve, lubricating furiously to ease the digit’s passage.

 

“Aagggh, but it feels  _ good _ , Ratchet!”

 

“I get that, Tailgate, be patient and I can get you out of here.” Ratchet’s delicate medic hand left Tailgate’s node to swirl around the half-hidden head of his unpressurized spike. It rose to the occasion happily, rising straight into Ratchet’s palm.

 

“Even after modding it myself, I can’t quite believe this little thing. Do you really fit this inside yourself, Cyclonus? It looks about as big around as a fist!”

 

Cyclonus huffed a vent, a twinge of mercury embarrassment coloring his field. “I assure you, doctor, it fits.”

 

Ratchet nodded, and massaged over the surface to locate the small bumps, piercings, vibrating and not, that he’d placed under the derma and through the head. There was a ladder of bumps lining the underside, each unspeakably sensitive to touch. Every brush of Ratchet’s talented digits was an exquisite torture. Tailgate’s temperature was fluxxing rapidly, pinging across his plating and causing static across his HUD.

 

Ratchets digit found the several deeply-buried nubs at the back of Tailgate’s valve. Tailgate’s field jolted with a sudden charge and the little bot arched almost painfully.

 

“ _ Mmmmm _ !!!!”

 

Ratchet’s own field responded with Cyclonus’, a soothing balm of polar-static to help take the edge off. Tailgate’s leg kicked the doctor in the chestplate.

 

“Stop that! Let me overload!”

 

Ratchet removed his digit quickly, slapping his servo over Tailgate’s anterior node. “Yeah, that’s my cue. You’re fine. Get out of here and get an overload or six out of your system, being celibate for the duration of your valve-mod recovery isn’t easy. The overloads will come fast and hard for the first few orn, but they should be more under control after that.

 

Tailgate glared up with his bright visor, shifting his helm between Ratchet, already making ready to back away and leave, and Cyclonus, lent to one side to give the doctor room.

 

“ _ Cyclonus _ !!”

 

The purple mech blocked Ratchet’s exit with one arm, nodding to the little bot reclined on the med-berth. “Doctor, if you would--”

 

“Would  _ what _ ?! I modded his valve to Cybertron and back--you can  _ fit _ into your minibot lover for the first time --what the  _ frag _ are you asking me to wait for?!”

 

Cyclonus gently took the doctor’s servo in his, folding down a few digits, leaving the fore and middle digits free. The bot guided the medic’s servo back to Tailgate’s entrance.

 

“I would like you to show me how to please him best...if you’re interested.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this ridiculousness! I will probably go through and edit some of it when I find myself a chance, but at the moment, it doesn't look like I'll get any real spare time until American Thanksgiving in a few weeks, and even then, hell if I know.  
> Much love and adoration, comments keep writers alive!!!!  
> *mwah!*

**Author's Note:**

> Jumped into this without any planning or thought beyond, "yeah, I've been meaning to do that, right?" That said, please help keep my motivation up with a comment! Thank you!


End file.
